A HARD WOMAN 
 
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A HARD WOMAN 
 
 A STORY IN SCENES 
 
 BY 
 
 VIOLET HUNT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the MAIDEn's PROGRESS" 
 
 LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, Ld. 
 1895 
 
 [All rights reserved] 
 
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, 
 London & Bungay. 
 

 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 A STORY IN SCENES 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 As a painter seeks far and wide for suitable 
 models for his pictures, so a writer of novels, of the 
 school to which I belong, has to pursue the same 
 troublesome method. I am always on the look- 
 out for the human document ; I occasionally find 
 it, and the chief personage of the story following 
 has for some time past been one of my very best 
 models. I have studied her long, and I think that 
 no one knows her better than I do — her husband 
 probably not excepted. 
 
 Though she is a conventional woman, she has 
 somehow never thought it worth her while to adopt 
 any ceremonious reserve with me. It is not com- 
 plimentary to the man, who, however, pockets the 
 affront for the benefit of the novelist. In the 
 interests of literary art I have not scrupled to use 
 
 ^ *7o 
 
2 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 my opportunities, and I have studied this woman 
 from every point of view ; from the inside and 
 from the outside ; directly from herself and indi- 
 rectly from her friends and belongings, with all of 
 whom I am intimately acquainted. Many con- 
 versations, which it was my privilege to hold with 
 the lady herself, I have literally transcribed ; but I 
 mean likewise to assume the novelist's prerogative, 
 and set down, with equal confidence, scenes and 
 conversations in which I, personally, had no part. 
 
 I have told her that I intended to put her in 
 a novel some day. It is a little joke between us. 
 She likes the idea, she plays with it — she often 
 alludes to it — and even condescends to assist me in 
 my work with hints and suggestions as to the 
 development of her own character. But not for 
 one moment would I accept her version, nor 
 indeed would she accept mine, as it is set forth in 
 these pages ! 
 
 Am I acting unkindly to this lady .-* It might at 
 first seem so, but I confess that my artistic con- 
 science is ungalled. The modern novelist is no 
 more touched by scruples of this kind than the 
 humane surgeon who cuts to cure. And if I had 
 any prickings of remorse, they would disappear in 
 the reflection that my dear Mrs. Munday, if she 
 should ever catch a trace of her own lineaments in 
 the glass I have endeavoured to hold before her, 
 
A HARD WOMAN 3 
 
 would of herself supply an anodyne more anaes- 
 thetic than ether or chloroform — her vanity. She 
 will read my novel, she will criticize it freely. She 
 may approve or she may condemn, but one thing I 
 am assured : she will never even grasp the fact 
 that she herself is the subject — no, not even though 
 she read this preface ! 
 
 W. St. Jerome. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 The domestic circle of the Barkers — of the 
 eminent firm of Barker and Marindin, of Lothbury 
 and of 56, Bedford Square — when my friend Lydia 
 Munday still formed part of it a few years ago, 
 was subject to the usual curse of large families, 
 and never could decide where to bestow itself for 
 the summer. This momentous decision was always 
 deferred as long as possible. As poor Mrs. Barker 
 said, what was the use of making plans that were 
 always liable — nay, sure — to be upset at the last 
 moment ? 
 
 But there was no reason why the subject should 
 not be discussed, and discussed it was, and gener- 
 ally at the family breakfast-table, v/hen the family 
 assembled every morning, fit and fresh and eager 
 for the fray, all except the eldest daughter of the 
 house, who preferred to take her breakfast in quiet, 
 and had the best of reasons for not joining in a 
 controversy whose ultimate decision, as she very 
 well knew, rested with her. 
 
 The discussion was brought to an abrupt close 
 
A HARD WOMAN 5 
 
 as usual, one day perilously near the first of 
 August, by the bread-winner looking at his watch, 
 rising hastily from his chair, and casting down his 
 napkin with an air of despair. 
 
 " It's the same thing every day ! " he remarked. 
 " I'm sick of it. I've just ten minutes to get to 
 Lothbury in. It takes twenty. Settle it all among 
 yourselves — money's no particular object, as you 
 know, but remember I must be able to get up to 
 town once a week." 
 
 " He seems put out," said his wife, when the hall 
 door had banged. She made this obvious remark 
 — as she had several times before — to the most 
 sympathetic of her three daughters. 
 
 Lucy did not point out this vain repetition to 
 her mother. She was a sweet girl. She merely 
 replied as usual — 
 
 " Yes, he does seem vexed, mother.'* 
 
 " And really / don't care where I go, so long as 
 I get a little peace, and Lydia and Celestine don't 
 grumble. It is such a plague taking a French 
 maid about with one always, but if Lydia can't do 
 without her, she can't ! " 
 
 " Bless her bonny face," murmured the old Scotch 
 aunt, from the other side of the table. 
 
 " There you go, aunty, always praising Lydia — 
 or if it isn't Lydia, it's Fred, never me ! " said the 
 girl. . Though sweet she was human. 
 
6 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "That reminds me," said the old lady, getting 
 up rheumatically, and pulling the covers over the 
 dishes, "she'll like her bacon hot when she does 
 come down." 
 
 "Why can't Lydia condescend to get up and 
 eat her breakfast at the same time as anybody 
 else ? It's right down unfair." It was Toosie, the 
 school-girl, who spoke. 
 
 "Ah, but ye must remember Lydia was always 
 a delicate lassie," maundered Aunt Elspeth. " She 
 must be considered — she canna just digest " 
 
 " Rubbish, she can digest well enough, only she's 
 greedy ! The way we all spoil Lydia " 
 
 **I wonder now if Lydia would like Bourne- 
 mouth," pondered her mother. "Fred seems to 
 want to go there." 
 
 "Oh, not Bournemouth! Whitby!" pleaded 
 Toosie. 
 
 "Oh, no, not Whitby! Harrogate!" pleaded 
 Lucy. 
 
 "Then you may just go to your horrid old 
 Harrogate by yourself!" 
 
 " Girls ! girls ! " murmured Mrs. Barker. 
 
 " I do wish, mother," said Toosie, in an injured 
 tone, "that you would not speak like that. It 
 sounds just as if Lucy and I were quarrelling. We 
 are only discussing. Lucy, you know that I know 
 that you only want to go to Harrogate because 
 
A HARD WOMAN 7 
 
 Mr. St. Jerome said he was going there ! And 
 I know you don't mean to have him, you only 
 mean to whittle away the time with him. So what 
 a shame it is to drag all your family off to a dull 
 health resort, when they haven't got livers or any- 
 thing to cure, just to help you to meet a young 
 man you don't even mean to marry in the end ! 
 If you meant business, I'd be the first to help, but 
 you can easily find some one just to flirt with at 
 Whitby." 
 
 " Whitby is too dreadfully relaxing," complained 
 Lucy, no whit abashed by this brutal analysis of 
 her motives. In this family hard hitting and hard 
 speaking were the rule. 
 
 " It's never too relaxing to flirt. Ask Lydia." 
 
 " I say, where do yoii want to go to. Aunt 
 Elspeth } " cried the child, flinging her arms round 
 the old lady. " Say Whitby, it's a lovely place for 
 old ladies ! They sit about the cliffs and watch us 
 come up from bathing. Oh, it's awfully lively for 
 them. Say Whitby, there's a dear old thing ! " 
 
 Aunt Elspeth settled her cap. "Eh, ye're a 
 clingsome lassie. We'll see, we'll sec — as soon as 
 Lydia comes down." 
 
 " Lydia again ! " grumbled Lucy. '' Here she is ! 
 Now we shan't get a word in." 
 
 Angry tones, crossing with deprecatory ones, 
 were heard in the hall outside. 
 
8 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "Vraiment, c'est d'une stupidite " 
 
 " Mais, mademoiselle " 
 
 " Taisez vous ! Pas d'excuses ! Que cela soit 
 d^fait tout de suite, a I'instant " 
 
 " Bien, mademoiselle." 
 
 Depressed steps were heard pattering away in 
 the direction of the servants' hall, the door 
 opened in a free and large manner, and Miss 
 Lydia Barker, the light of battle shining in her 
 eyes, walked in. 
 
 *' What are you scolding that unfortunate 
 Celestine for ? " asked her mother. 
 
 " Her stupidity is intolerable ! Fancy, she was 
 actually sending my grass lawn dress to be 
 cleaned without unpicking the sleeves. The con- 
 sequence is — oh bother, don't let's talk about it ! 
 I want my breakfast." 
 
 *'You might at least say good-morning," said 
 her mother mildly. 
 
 " Oh, I forgot ! Good-morning, aunty ! Good- 
 morning, Lucy. I've seen you already ! I came 
 into your room to fetch my curling-tongs. You 
 were asleep. What an object you looked ! Good- 
 morning, Toosie, you little scaramouch ! What's 
 in that dish by you, aunty.?" 
 
 " Rissoles." 
 
 "Well, give me some of the old things," she 
 said resignedly. " I never knew a cook with so 
 
A HARD WOMAN 9 
 
 little invention as ours. However, we must eat, 
 or to-morrow we die ! . . . There, I knew it — 
 they're as cold as ice ! " 
 
 " You should come down earlier," hazarded her 
 mother mildly ; " it's ten o'clock." 
 
 " Is it } We didn't leave the Symonds' till 
 three, did we, Lucy ? Why do you get up so 
 early, Lucy } I suppose you like it. You aren't 
 so exhausted as me. I take it out of myself 
 tremendously. And then," she continued, in a 
 low voice, " I had a very trying interview with 
 young Symonds. You saw us, Lucy, thrashing it 
 out in the conservatory ? He made such a scene ! 
 Silly boy ! . . . Toosie, do stop looking at me 
 over your teacup ! It fidgets me — and I'm very 
 nervous to-day." 
 
 She ate a hearty breakfast and the family 
 watched her in silence. 
 
 " How glum you all look this morning ! " she 
 remarked presently. " What's up ? " 
 
 " It's settling where to go," said the other two, 
 both at once. 
 
 "Oh, I'll soon settle that," said Lydia ; "only 
 just let me finish my breakfast." 
 
 She topped up with a large piece of bread and 
 marmalade, and then, throwing down her napkin, 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " Now then ! Come on, everybody ! I see you 
 
lo A HARD WOMAN 
 
 all want something different. The best way is 
 to do what nobody wants. We will take you all 
 seriatim." 
 
 She put her arm round the old lady. " Aunt 
 Elspeth, where I go thou goest, isn*t it so ? 
 Mother, you're resigned, as usual. Father doesn't 
 care. Lucy — how you do sniff, child ! Have you 
 got that wretched hay-fever of yours on again } 
 I wonder you condescend. Well, what's your 
 idea .? " 
 
 " I've been advising them all to go to Harro- 
 gate," said Lucy languidly. 
 
 *' Advisitigy she calls it," put in Toosie. "If 
 you had only heard " 
 
 " Now don't fight, little girls," said Lydia, 
 waving her hand. " Am I to understand that 
 the discussion has been somewhat heated on both 
 sides .? " 
 
 " No — only " said Lucy. 
 
 " No — only " said Toosie. 
 
 " Don't both speak at once ! " said Lydia. 
 *' This amuses me. Now, Lucy, give me your 
 arguments in favour of Harrogate as clearly 
 and shortly as you can. They say we women 
 can't do that. I can always say what I want in 
 two words. Well, Lucy } " 
 
 " It's so nice and near for father," murmured 
 Lucy, to which Toosie added " Hypocrite ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN ii 
 
 " We'll leave father out just now," smiled 
 Lydia — she had a cheerful, complaisant smile. 
 " Give me your purely personal considerations ! 
 Wko else is going to Harrogate ? " 
 
 " The Symonds," replied Lucy eagerly, " and 
 Mrs. Wynne — and Mr. St. Jerome and his mother 
 — and the Maynes have taken a house four miles 
 off " 
 
 " Well sandwiched, Lucy ! I admire your tact. 
 Well, but I object strongly to the Symonds, and 
 St. Jerome bores me to extinction — ^just now. I 
 don't want to get mixed up with the Wynnes 
 more than I can help. I want to improve our 
 set instead of lowering it — it is bourgeois enough 
 already, heaven knows — and why should I walk 
 four miles into the country to see the Maynes 
 when I wouldn't take a shilling cab to see them 
 in town t That's unanswerable, isn't it } " 
 
 « But " 
 
 " Closure ! " said Lydia firmly. " Now, Toosie, 
 your turn ! Try to clothe your sentiments in 
 decent English, and we shall be delighted to listen 
 to you. Why do you want to go to Whitby } " 
 
 " Because it's got a beach worth mentioning, and 
 such good donkeys, and a cliff full of Bedlamites 
 and Amorites, and lots of shipwrecks, and larks 
 like that " 
 
 "A hateful place," put in Lucy, "where it is 
 
12 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 always windy if it isn't rainy, where the Httle 
 
 boys throw herrings at you in the street, and 
 
 scaly fishermen rub against you and ruin your 
 
 dress, and " 
 
 " Yes," said Lydia meditatively. " I agree with 
 
 Lucy there. It isn't at all a nice place for any 
 
 one over twelve years old . . . No, I don't intend 
 
 to go to Whitby." 
 
 " Then," observed her mother, " it's no use 
 
 taking up that advertisement about the house in 
 
 St. Hilda's Terrace, is it .? " 
 " Not a bit, mother ! Eliminate Whitby. Spell 
 
 eliminate, Toosie, and don't make faces. Now 
 listen, all of you ! I've thought this out myself. 
 There's a place called Prawnborough that I have 
 been hearing about. It's a place where artists go 
 to paint. Lucy can keep up her sketching. It's 
 on the south coast. It's rather wild, but I should 
 not mind that. It's rather quiet, but we've had 
 enough of Scarborough and Harrogate, and the 
 hateful crowds who go there." 
 
 " But who goes to Prawnborough ^ Who told 
 you of it ? " said Mrs. Barker timidly. " Do you 
 know of any lodgings } " 
 
 " All the fishermen's wives let lodgings," said 
 Lydia, evading the first part of the question. 
 " I know of some. In fact I've written. I thought 
 it would save trouble, as I had quite determined 
 
A HARD WOMAN 13 
 
 to go there. Oh, you'll like it. There's a pier 
 for Lucy and a beach for Toosie. You'll square 
 father, won't you, mother ? Aunt Elspeth, you 
 old dear, you don't care so long as your children 
 are happy, and there's a parson at Prawnborough 
 who will give you three services a day if you 
 like ! " 
 
 " Bless the child ! " murmured the old lady. 
 " Always thinking of others ! " 
 
 The others murmured something, simultaneously, 
 which sounded very like " Selfish pig ! " 
 
 " What are you two girls mumbling ? " said 
 Lydia urbanely. 
 
 " Nothing complimentary ! " they both assured 
 her. 
 
 " Don't repeat it then." 
 
 " Please, Lydia," interrupted the younger girl 
 humbly, " are there any donkeys there ? " 
 
 " Not yet," said Lydia meaningly. 
 
 " It's all very well," Lucy spoke solemnly. " I 
 know guiU well who you are going for, Lydia. 
 The Wilkinsons have taken a house there, I 
 know — but is there likely to be any one there 
 / can speak to 1 " 
 
 "The Malorys are going, I fancy," said Lydia 
 negligently ; " and I heard that man we met last 
 night say he was going, when he heard I was." 
 
 « Who ? " 
 
14 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "That long-legged man who can't dance — Mr. 
 Woffle." 
 
 " Why, Jie's yours ! " 
 
 " Oh, I'll lend him to you if you like. He 
 bores me. And so ugly ! He'd have red hair 
 I suppose — if he had any." 
 
 " I'm very much obliged to you, I am sure," 
 said Lucy sarcastically. Then, as all the rest of 
 the party gradually straggled away, leaving her 
 and her sister alone, she plucked up a spirit, and 
 said in a low voice, " I suppose you will have your 
 hands full. Well, I hope for all our sakes you will 
 manage it this summer, and I'll be a good sister 
 to you, and not tell him what a beast you are at 
 home ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 15 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 On the Beach at Prawnborough. MiSS Lydia 
 Barker sittings writing on her knee. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Malory — 
 
 Excuse pencil. I promised to write and 
 tell you all about Prawnborough, didn't I } Well, 
 to begin with, it isn't quite the sort of place we 
 generally come to ; but I was getting tired of 
 the rowdy Margate-Eastbourne-Herne-Bay style. 
 This is a nice, quiet, well-bred place — very good 
 form, if one may say so. There's no band, but 
 there's a view somewhere I'm told, and it's a kind 
 of place that artists and bishops come to. There's 
 something very dignified about a bishop. His legs 
 quite adorn a parade. Yes, I'm glad I took 
 Arthur Wilkinson's suggestion, and came here. 
 
 I can always make my people go where I like. 
 They know I know what's good for them, and 
 never dream of seriously objecting. It's the empire 
 of a strong mind over a weak family. They tell 
 me to make up their minds for them, and when 
 
1 6 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 they grumble afterwards, I always say — "Well, 
 you know you left it to me ! " So they did — so 
 they do — it's never any good their doing anything 
 else! 
 
 Not but what they didn't grumble a good deal 
 this time. Prawnborough sounded so different to 
 what they had been used to, and mother never cares 
 to wander from her own fireside ; but what with 
 painters and paperers and house-cleaners I take 
 care to make her own fireside so hot — I mean so 
 cold — for her, that she's glad enough to leave it. 
 Then father had some ridiculous notion about 
 being in touch with his own doctor ! As if there 
 weren't doctors who find it worth their while to be 
 sympathetic at every sea-side place ! Lucy has no 
 initiative. She always likes what I like — in the 
 end — though I am not sure she hadn't a sneaking 
 preference for Harrogate. Fred wanted us all at 
 Bournemouth, because the air there suits him down 
 to the ground. There's a girl there suits him down 
 to the ground, I know well enough, but I don't 
 want any sister-in-law that I haven't chosen myself, 
 so I wouldn't entertain that project for a single 
 moment! All that Toosie cares for is that there 
 should be a good beach. I took the responsibility, 
 and said there were "golden sands" at Prawn- 
 borough, and now it turns out to be only shingle ! 
 
 I have found out where the Wilkinsons' house is. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 17 
 
 A perfect mansion ! They're richer than we are, 
 even. It's much nicer than our place, but then it 
 isn't lodgings, you see. We had to take what we 
 could get. 
 
 Arthur Wilkinson comes down to-day. He told 
 me all about Prawnborough at the Symonds' dance, 
 and insisted on my coming here and bringing my 
 family. "You can work it, you know," he said. 
 Poor boy ! he has the greatest confidence in my 
 savoir faire. He is a mere good and chattel of his 
 family, he says. I think I see Mrs. Wilkinson 
 ordering me about, if I were her daughter-in-law ! 
 
 I can be her daughter-in-law if I like. Arthur 
 adores me. I mean to — do I } Yes, I think I do — 
 on the whole. I am twenty-five, and one man is 
 very like another — so long as he's a gentleman. 
 I can improve Arthur too, a good deal. 
 
 At any rate, I told him I would come to Prawn- 
 borough this summer. I took the matter into my 
 own hands, consulted Bradshaw, and wrote to the 
 address Arthur gave me for lodgings ; and we have 
 got them — seven rooms — or rather one room and 
 six cupboards ; nothing found, and all extras sup- 
 plied for the use of the landlady for seven guineas 
 a week ! That's my little joke. Though Prawn- 
 borough isn't fashionable, it seems a very expensive 
 place. 
 
 They were all rather disappointed as we lurched 
 
 c 
 
1 8 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 down the hill in the creaky old station fly. Mother 
 kept saying she should never get up it again alive, 
 and it did not even seem to be picturesque. I must 
 say I thought Arthur said red roofs, but one can't 
 have everything here below ; and after an eight 
 hours' journey one is apt to see roofs and every- 
 thing else grey. At any rate, I saw a very smart 
 woman standing at the station, near a stack of 
 luggage labelled Nugent, and some of it Munday. 
 I looked. She had a footman with her, and there 
 was a very good-looking man about; but I don't 
 know if he belonged to her or no. I wish Arthur 
 would wear that sort of suit ; I rather think I hate 
 the patterns of his trousers — too large ! I wonder 
 who the Nugents — or Mundays — are ? and if we 
 shall come across them } I shall make it my 
 business to. I want to collect nice friends. 
 
 Our rooms are certainly rather bare and small, 
 and the arm-chairs look like geological formations, 
 and as if countless children had for centuries 
 scrambled over them, and nibbled their corners 
 off, and there's a wall-paper that simply shouts 
 at you. But when mother had put out her twelve 
 home comforts — you know she always travels with 
 twelve home comforts, in the shape of candlesticks, 
 blotter, and vaporizer, and cushions, and so on — the 
 room began to look nicer. The sofas are of horse- 
 hair, and strictly on the offensive. They would 
 
A HARD WOMAN 19 
 
 certainly push one off if one attempted to lie on 
 them, but I don't mean to have headaches. The 
 bedrooms are quite tiny ; my window opens 
 straight on to the water-butt — but then mother's 
 won't even shut. There isn't room for my dress 
 boxes in my room, so I put them in the passage, 
 and father has to tumble over them and swear 
 every time. I've never been in Lucy and Toosie's 
 room at all, but I believe it's even smaller than 
 mine. They are always complaining, anyhow. 
 Give me air and sunlight, and I ask nothing more. 
 ***** 
 " I believe I'll finish this letter indoors. The 
 sun positively makes the letters dance. I can 
 
 hardly see " 
 
 ***** 
 
 " There's the man who was with the smart 
 woman at the station, and a little girl with them ! 
 Are they husband and wife ? No, they don't look 
 married to each other. I'd back myself to tell. 
 They're brother and sister. I wonder if he is 
 Munday or Nugent ? I wonder if I look at all 
 nice, sitting here ? 
 
 " He's very good-looking. I like the easy way 
 he walks — with a kind of swing. How funnily he 
 screws up his eyes to look at things. Oh ! he is 
 an artist, I see — got a sketching-block under his 
 arm. That explains it. 
 
20 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Did I remember to bring my block and drawing 
 materials ? I might take it up again ! 
 
 " He must be a good deal taller than Arthur 
 Wilkinson — or is it because he is thin ? I like tall 
 men best. I don't think they grow in the City, 
 somehow. The woman is tall too ; she's not pretty, 
 but so distinguished-looking, and very like him ! 
 Oh, she's his sister, she must be ! And they've both 
 got that curly dark hair I like. 
 
 " I wish they would look at me ! They're on the 
 next bench, and they never look my way. I don't 
 suppose I am the kind of woman he admires. I'm 
 not dressed like that woman, at any rate. She 
 looks dowdy, if anything. I'm much better dressed, 
 but this hat has really too many colours on it, I 
 think. 
 
 " Fred, you are a perfect nuisance ! Can't you 
 amuse yourself.-* There's no sight in the world 
 more deplorable than a man who can't employ 
 himself, I think. Go and play billiards in the 
 casino. No tips to the cues, you say .'' It's a bad 
 workman quarrels with his tools. Why don't you 
 go fishing, or sketching, or bathing, or something ? 
 No ! Well, then, go and admire the beauties of 
 nature. I'm told there are some about here. I 
 suppose you are hankering after the beauties of 
 Bournemouth . . . Arthur Wilkinson just arrived, 
 you say .? Coming along now .? I hope you didn't 
 
A HARD WOMAN 21 
 
 tell him I was sitting out here. I don't want him. I 
 want to be quiet. If you have really nothing to 
 do, follow those people home — those two on the 
 bench there, and see what hotel they go to. 
 
 '* Now, here's Lucy, looking as cross as the devil ; 
 and how dreadfully sunburnt she has contrived 
 to get in two days ! The lobster in the lobster- 
 pot is nothing to her ! . . . No shade here ! 
 Now, really, Lucy, is there ever shade at the sea- 
 side } You expect too much. Devonshire ? Well, 
 I forgot Devonshire, and you never even proposed 
 to go there when it was still time. And this is 
 a most interesting place. Fred, those people are 
 moving. Do go and do what I told you. And, 
 Lucy, if you have nothing better to do, run into 
 the house and get me my second volume. Mother 
 has it ? Oh, substitute the third volume — she will 
 never notice ! 
 
 " Here is actually Arthur Wilkinson coming 
 bounding along ! Just off the train. What zeal ! 
 And what an owl he looks ! One ought never to 
 see people coming a long way off. 
 
 '' There's nobody left on the Parade. I am glad 
 those people won't see Arthur come up and speak 
 to me, at any rate. He will be so stupidly effusive. 
 I shall go in and finish my letter to Mrs. Malory, 
 I think." 
 
2 2 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Scene. — A hmch-table crowded with viands of a 
 simple and wholesome character. Mrs. HUGO 
 Malory is dispefising roast mutton and rice 
 pudding to a qtiiverful of hungry children. Enter 
 Miss Lydia Barker, a little out of breath. 
 
 Lydia. I've come to lunch, dear Mrs. Malory. 
 Good-morning, Fraulein ! Good-morning, infants ! 
 
 Mrs. Malory {carving). That's right, dear. 
 Make room for Miss Barker, children. And why 
 haven't you been to see me all this time } 
 
 Lydia. Oh, I don't know — time slips away. 
 I've been so busy — so taken up {meaningly). 
 
 Mrs. Malory {cumbered with serving). Frau- 
 lein, will you kindly pass Johnny's plate ? 
 
 Lydia. I came to — I wanted to see you — I 
 have promised to be at home at four o'clock 
 punctually. 
 
 Mrs. Malory {absently). Have you } Johnny, 
 don't stare so ! 
 
 Chorus of Children. He's upset your tumbler 
 of water. Miss Barker ! 
 
A HARD WOMAN 23 
 
 Lydia. Tiresome little monster ! 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Don't be angry with the child, 
 he was looking at your hat. I don't know how it 
 is, Lydia, but I never knew a girl so entirely 
 without the maternal instinct as you. 
 
 Lydia {coolly). No, you never did. I never 
 even had a doll. {Makes a hasty lunch.) Mrs. 
 Malory, do let Fraulein dispense the rice pudding, 
 and come with me. I want to talk to you. 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Very well. {They go upstairs, 
 Lydia sinks into a chair and tries to look different^ 
 My dear child, excuse me, but are you trying to 
 blush ? Ah, now you are, but only because I have 
 found you out. Come, what is it } Something 
 momentous } A serious quarrel with Lucy — or 
 have you by any chance met your fate at last ? 
 
 Lydia {with effect^). Yes, and It's coming to call 
 at four o'clock this afternoon ! 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Not really.^ You take my 
 breath away ! I was joking. Who is it } 
 
 Lydia {slowly). It's not Mr. Symonds — or Mr. 
 St. Jerome — or Mr. Wilkinson even. It's an artist 
 — a friend of yours ! 
 
 Mrs. Malory. You — and an artist ! 
 
 Lydia. I don't see why I shouldn't manage an 
 artist as well as anybody else . . . It's Ferdinand 
 Munday. 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Ferdinand Munday ! 
 
24 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Lydia. You do seem awfully surprised, dear 
 Mrs. Malory. I didn't know that you had that 
 sort of old-fashioned contempt for artists ! 
 
 Mrs. Malory. My dear — Mr, Munday is so 
 serious — so 
 
 Lydia. So am I — so everything — when I want 
 to be. And he's not so serious as all that ; and 
 I tell you he won my heart with drawing carica- 
 tures 
 
 Mrs. Malory. I confess I don't know him 
 from that point of view. Well, go on ! Wasn't 
 there something about a young Wilkinson } 
 
 Lydia. Oh, — Arthur Wilkinson ! He isn't in 
 it. All I know is that I shall be engaged to 
 Ferdinand Munday this afternoon — at exactly 
 ten minutes past four — at least it will be settled 
 by then, I suppose. 
 
 Mrs. Malory {j)ertinaciously). But what have 
 you done with the other } Why, you took him to 
 Prawnborough ! 
 
 Lydia. He came there, more fool he ! And 
 then I saw what a mistake it would have been. 
 He was devoted to me, of course ; it was really too 
 palpable. He was always glowering at me in that 
 possessive kind of way that seems to create an 
 atmosphere round a girl and keep other men away 
 don't you know. Quite unendurable ! 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Poor young Wilkinson ! 
 
A HARD WOMAN 25 
 
 Lydia. Poor or not, it is the one way to make 
 a girl tired of you. I shouldn't advise any one to 
 try it. A man, whatever he feels, ought to know 
 how to keep a civil eye in his head. 
 
 Mrs. Malory. I suppose he was very much 
 in love with you ? 
 
 Lydia. Well, I wasn't — and I got cross — and 
 then 
 
 Mrs. Malory. And then you met Ferdinand } 
 
 Lydia. Yes, and you have no idea what a 
 relief it was — such a change 
 
 Mrs. Malory. I should think so. 
 
 Lydia. Arthur Wilkinson never thought of 
 anything or spoke of anything but money and 
 City things. It would have been simply social 
 suicide to marry him. Stockbroking never leads 
 to anything except stockbroking — one makes the 
 money, and there's no fun spending it among City 
 people. Ferdinand is a nephew — no, cousin, is it i* — 
 of Lord Putney 
 
 Mrs. Malory {wincing). Yes, I know. 
 
 Lydia. But still, I wasn't quite sure if I cared 
 actually to marry an artist, and so I kept him 
 hanging about a little. I sat for him all the winter 
 off and on, though; and he amused me — and you 
 know at home we're all so dull since papa died — 
 and they all go dumping about, and I get depressed, 
 and ready to do anything — and yesterday I met 
 
26 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 him outside Mudie's in the rain, and I was muddy, 
 and he was muddy — there's a good pun there, 
 though I say it who shouldn't — and everything 
 looked miserable — I don't know what possessed 
 me — but I told him to come and call to-day, and 
 that meant — of course ! — After all, one must marry 
 somebody, some time ! 
 
 Mrs. Malory {effusively). You poor child, you 
 pretend to be cynical, but you want to be loved, 
 I see, after all, like any other woman . . . {casts her 
 arms round Miss Barker, and in so doing sweeps 
 an ornafuent off the table with her elbow). 
 
 Lydia {disengaging herself). Don't ! You make 
 me feel rather a fool, don't you know. {Picks up 
 the ornament and looks at it.) I rather like these 
 china monkeys — they're quaint. 
 
 Mrs. Malory {a little abashed). And you can 
 talk of china monkeys ! 
 
 Lydia. Why not ? It's as good a subject as 
 another. 
 
 Mrs. Malory. But now, when you are standing 
 on the threshold of — the most important step of 
 a girl's life — ! It must open up such vistas 
 
 Lydia. Ah, but I've looked down those vistas 
 so often. I've thought about being married before, 
 you know — one has to. And I hate the " I've found 
 him, I've found him, my king, my king," attitude, 
 and "lovers soaring into the empyrean on the 
 
A HARD WOMAN 27 
 
 wings of love," and all- that. I'd rather grovel in 
 the Park on a fine day. I'm not sentimental. 
 
 IMrs. Malory. Girls are not, now-a-days. Well, 
 go on. What are you going to say to him when 
 he comes .? 
 
 Lydia. Yes. Just yes. No raptures. I 
 suppose he'll kiss me. I hate being kissed. 
 
 Mrs. Malory. My dear girl, Ferdinand Mun- 
 day is supposed to be awfully good-looking. 
 
 Lydia. Of course, or I wouldn't marry him. 
 I want a good match ... I say, who did this 
 room for you } 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Liberty — no, Morris — I 
 forget. 
 
 Lydia. Oh, but do try and remember ! I 
 want mine just so. White enamel — it's so pretty. 
 Ferdinand has got a lot of old furniture in his 
 studio in Holland Villas Road, that I shall draft 
 in, but I want the basis to be white. There's Gray, 
 R.A.'s old house in Pont Street I've had my eye 
 on for a long time. There's a good drawing-room 
 and a capital dining-room, and a studio that will 
 do beautifully for receptions, and a dear little place 
 at the back that will be my boudoir — done in 
 yellow — my colour. My husband shall never 
 enter it except by special invitation. Men hate 
 to find a woman's husband sitting about when 
 they call. 
 
28 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Malory. But where is he to go, after 
 painting hours ? 
 
 Lydia. To the club, or to call on other women. 
 
 Mrs. Malory. You might end by disliking that. 
 
 Lydia. Oh no. I should expect him to have 
 his little flirtations, just as I should have mine. 
 Love and let love, or at least flirt. That's my 
 motto. I should be quite nice to her^ and ask her 
 to dinner — drive her about 
 
 Mrs. Malory. My dear Lydia, all this sounds 
 very immoral ! How did you pick up such theories 
 in Bedford Square .•* 
 
 Lydia. I don't know. I think for myself, I 
 suppose. It is my theory that half the unhappi- 
 ness of married life comes of husbands and wives 
 being constantly together — all in all to each other. 
 Pooh ! It's a bad plan. Besides, I couldn't engage 
 to keep him amused. I shouldn't have time . . . 
 Oh, please, what time is it } I must be at home by 
 four — and in the drawing-room — in an elegant 
 attitude of expectation 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Dear Lydia, think ! It is the 
 most solemn moment of your whole life — this 
 interview you are going to have 
 
 Lydia. I know that. I've lots of points I must 
 make. One must be prepared, and not allow one- 
 self to be put upon. But I'm not afraid. I know 
 what I want. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 29 
 
 Mrs. Malory. And what does he want .? 
 
 Lydia {triumphantly). Me ! 
 
 Mrs. Malory {looking at her). You certainly 
 are a wonderfully pretty creature, but 
 
 Lydia (anxiously). You think I could have 
 done better } 
 
 Mrs. Malory. That is not what I meant. 
 
 Lydia. No, really I think I am doing for the 
 best, for he is so good-tempered, and reliable, and 
 won't worry me about trifles, — and it's for life, you 
 know. Why do you look at me like that } 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Go on. Let me hear. What 
 other little stipulations are you going to make .'* 
 
 Lydia. Oh, are you interested in that.!* So 
 am I. Let me see. There are some very im- 
 portant things. My settlement — but that's all 
 arranged for. The money papa left me is, you 
 know, absolutely mine. I must say he managed 
 everything very neatly before he died. But you 
 don't mean about money, you mean about the 
 little points that one must settle for oneself, don't 
 you } Ferdinand must promise to drop any of his 
 bachelor friends I don't like — and not litter up my 
 house with shabby artists. He must never ask 
 me where I have been, or where I am going, or 
 expect me to dance with him at balls. I should 
 not mind, but it looks so bad. And he is not to 
 wish to see any letters I may write or receive. 
 
30 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Malory. You might want to see his } 
 
 Lydia {smiling). No, for they will be bills. 
 
 Mrs. Malory. Not necessarily. That brings 
 us to the great question of ante-nuptial revelations. 
 Shall you insist on being told everything, like girls 
 in novels t 
 
 Lydia I'm not the least like a girl in a novel. 
 I don't mean to ask any questions. I shouldn't 
 care for him if he hadn't had a past — but I don't 
 want to know about it. How serious we have 
 got ! . . . Oh, I know what I wanted to ask you. 
 May I have Johnny and Guy to hold up my train } 
 Lucy and Toosie will be bridesmaids, of course. 
 I haven't settled if it's to be in St. George's or 
 St. Paul's, yet — St. George's, I think, because the 
 aisle is broader, and it doesn't cramp the procession 
 so. I hate a messy wedding. Mine shall be in 
 the afternoon, and — oh, I say, it's a quarter to four. 
 I must go. You might advise me. You know if 
 I'm ever to make any conditions I must do it now. 
 Afterwards will be too late. 
 
 Mrs. Malory {coldly). Can't you leave it to 
 him } 
 
 Lydia. Leave it to him t Why I should like 
 it down in black and white — only it wouldn't be 
 decent. But I must keep my head level, and mind 
 what I'm about . . . Well, good-bye, the hour is 
 come — and, I hope, not the man yet, till I am 
 
A HARD WOMAN 31 
 
 ready. Now {solemnly) I know that this is a most 
 important interview — the whole happiness of my 
 married life depends on it. Tell me, before I go, 
 do you think I have forgotten anything 1 
 
 Mrs. Malory. No, dear, you have forgotten 
 nothing of importance — from your own point of 
 view ; but — I may be old-fashioned — I think you 
 are leaving out the one thing that would make 
 your marriage a success. 
 
 Lydia (eagerly). Oh, what t 
 
 Mrs. Malory. The one thing needful. Love ! 
 
 Lydia {deprecatingly). Dear Mrs. Malory ! 
 
32 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 " Oh yes, Lydia's married — a fortnight ago — 
 and a good thing too!" said Miss Lucy Barker 
 emphatically, as she sat down in her sister's old 
 place, and poured me out some tea. " Sugar ? I 
 can't think why you didn't manage to come back 
 from the Riviera in time for the wedding, Mr. 
 St. Jerome ! Horrid of you ! We all looked so 
 nice." 
 
 " I am sure you did. But I really knew nothing 
 about it till it was nearly over. You announced 
 the engagement and sent me wedding cards in the 
 same letter ! " 
 
 " It was Lydia. She made up her mind in a 
 flash. She always does." 
 
 " The moment I heard the great news I wrote 
 to congratulate her, and ordered her a present. 
 Did it come all right } " 
 
 " Rather 1 " 
 
 " And some flowers to console you." 
 
 " What for ? " said she derisively. " Then the 
 
A HARD WOMAN 35 
 
 flowers were for me ! I knew they were ! Lydia 
 would have it they were meant for her ; but for 
 once I stood out. You did put Lucy, not Lydia, 
 did not you ? " 
 
 " If I had meant them for your sister, I should 
 have addressed them to Miss Barker." 
 
 " That wouldn't have made the slightest differ- 
 ence. Lydia always collared both * Miss Barker ' 
 and ' Miss L. Barker.' It was most awkward. 
 However, it is all right now." She gave a vast 
 sigh of relief. 
 
 "You breathe freely.?" 
 
 "Well, you know, Lydia was terribly managing. 
 We couldn't call our souls our own. She was 
 always doing hateful things to us for our good. 
 We hated our good. Shall I tell you what Fred 
 and I did the very next day after she went ? We 
 set to work and altered all the furniture in the 
 drawing-room. Lydia was so particular about the 
 way things were. And she said things were 
 fashionable that were only uncomfortable, you 
 know. But the moment she married we left off 
 taking in the Nineteenth Century and stodgy 
 magazines like that, and took in Punch instead, 
 and we put poor Toosie into long frocks — Lydia 
 always kept her young — and gave the cat leave 
 to sit up-stairs, and the dogs, poor things ! And 
 I've got a room to myself, and my own letters 
 
34 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 without having to fight for them, and my own 
 way " 
 
 " It suits you. I never saw you look so well. 
 But now tell me all about Lydia." 
 
 " Bother Lydia ! " 
 
 "But I want to know about her. She was a 
 friend of mine, you know — not so much as you, of 
 course," I added hastily. " Was she very sorry to 
 go away and leave you all ? " 
 
 " Sorry ? Lydia ! Why, she was as cool as a 
 cucumber ! " 
 
 " Common-place simile ! " 
 
 " Oh, please don't be so particular ! I'm not 
 writing a novel. Are you } " 
 
 " Perhaps I am, Lucy. Well, and so Lydia took 
 it coolly ? " 
 
 "She never cried once. We all did. I can't 
 think why." 
 
 "Joy?" I hazarded. 
 
 " Ah, but mother didn't cry for joy ! She adores 
 Lydia. Why, she bursts out crying even now — it 
 is a whole fortnight since — when she comes across 
 things of Lydia's about the house." 
 
 " Her doll, for instance 1 " 
 
 " Her doll ! Fancy Lydia with a doll ! She 
 never had one. She says herself she hasn't the 
 maternal instinct ; her one idea when she sees a 
 baby is to throw it out of the window. She liked 
 
A HARD WOMAN 35 
 
 boys' games best. A regular tomboy ! I never 
 knew any one with such a strong wrist as Lydia. 
 She could put even Fred down." 
 
 " What does Fred say about the great event ? " 
 
 " Oh, Fred is rude, as usual ! He says we have 
 got rid of our family fiend — our domestic devil ! 
 Fred and Lydia never got on, you know. How 
 they used to fight ! Lydia hit very hard. I often 
 think I might have been clever — cleverer, I mean — 
 if Lydia had not stunted my intellect by bashing 
 my head against the nursery fender so often when 
 we were little. Did you ever hear how she tied " 
 
 " Is Munday equal to the occasion, do you 
 think .? " 
 
 " How do you mean } " 
 
 " Has he any idea of asserting himself — of put- 
 ting his foot down — I mean — if need were } Is 
 he able to stand up to her, in point of fact } " 
 
 " Oh but, Mr. St, Jerome, Lydia never means to 
 quarrel ! She would not condescend. She would 
 consider it too awfully low and undignified to 
 quarrel with her husband. She always said she 
 never would. She knows how to manage men, 
 she says — she has thought it all out. She wouldn't 
 think of allowing herself to be put upon. All 
 that's over, she says. A woman is as good as a 
 man now-a-days." 
 
 " Better perhaps." 
 
36 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Well, of course in some ways Lydia is far 
 smarter than Ferdinand. He's awfully nice, but 
 he's an artist, and puts all the cleverness into his 
 pictures. He really wanted a managing woman to 
 look after him, and get him on." 
 
 " Ah, I see, our dear Lydia married him from 
 purely altruistic motives ? " 
 
 Lucy looked bewildered. I remembered the 
 before-mentioned incident in connection with the 
 nursery fender, and forbore. " Is he good-looking ? " 
 
 "Yes — very — I think so, not that Lydia cares 
 about that ! She prefers to be the beauty. But 
 he admires her awfully — thinks her a healthy 
 young goddess, a kind of Artemis, he says." 
 
 " I begin to understand," I said. " And where 
 did he meet her en Artemis ? At the seaside ? " 
 
 "At Prawnborough. He was staying there, 
 sketching, with his married sister, Lady Nugent. 
 Lady Nugent didn't take to Lydia at first — sisters 
 never do — but of course she had to afterwards. 
 Well, and then Lydia got bored with Mr. Wilkin- 
 son — he is Fred's partner, you know — after she 
 had made him propose to her — we went to Prawn- 
 borough on purpose — and hated the sight of him, 
 so she took up Ferdinand Munday, and sketched 
 too. And then when we came back to town, he 
 used to come and call. I remember him at our 
 Christmas tree, and how he stood and watched 
 
A HARD WOMAN 37 
 
 Lydia romping with the children — he talked of her 
 just as if she were a picture." 
 
 " She's not the least like his pictures." 
 
 " Men always fall in love with not their ideals ! " 
 said Lucy knowingly. " He thought her very 
 handsome, anyhow — and he asked her to come to 
 his studio and pose for him as Britomart. Who 
 was Britomart, Mr. St. Jerome } " 
 
 " Read your Faery Queens 
 
 " Couldn't ! Tried once ! Lydia did though — 
 the bits about Britomart, at least, so as to be able 
 to talk to Ferdinand about her. She got up all 
 that sort of thing, and pretended to take a wild 
 interest in the Middle Ages." 
 
 " She posed for him, in fact — in more ways than 
 one." 
 
 "It was great fun," continued Lydia's candid 
 chronicler, giggling. " I used to go with her to 
 the studio, to chaperon her. It was as good as a 
 play ! She was so soft and gentle, and sentimental 
 even — not a bit like what she was at home! I 
 must say she laid it on pretty thick ; but then men 
 will stand anything ! Of course I didn't give her 
 away, you know. I am a good sister. I always 
 back up Lydia in public, even if I quarrel 
 with her in private. Besides, I wanted her 
 married ! This house wouldn't hold us both. So 
 I played up too, and by the time the picture 
 
38 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 was finished, Ferdinand thought her a perfect 
 angel." 
 
 " Well, and so she is ! " 
 
 " Mr. St. Jerome ! " said Lucy deprecatingly. 
 " Why, Lydia knows herself she isn't. We used 
 to laugh about it together." 
 
 " The cynicism of the modern girl is to me quite 
 appaUing ! Well, this pose of your sister's — tell 
 me — from what I know of Munday, from hearsay, 
 and his art, I should say she must have needed a 
 good deal of pose ! The constrained position — 
 why did your sister undergo it } Did she care for 
 him so very much ? " 
 
 " She never said," replied Lucy, with simplicity, 
 " but I suppose so. And then, you know, Lydia 
 always loathed Bedford Square." 
 
 " I fail to see the connection." 
 
 " The Bedford Square connection — the society, 
 I mean. Lydia hated all our set ; she wanted to 
 enlarge her sympathies " 
 
 " Save the mark ! " 
 
 " I don't always understand you, Mr. St. Jerome ! 
 I mean, Lydia thought she was wasted among 
 City people — and artists go into such very good 
 society now ! Ferdinand is a young man of extra- 
 ordinary promise, sure to make his mark in British 
 art." Lucy seemed to be quoting from contem- 
 porary critiques, carefully collected doubtless by 
 
A HARD WOMAN 39 
 
 her sister to authorize her choice, "and then he 
 has a very nice sister, living in Eaton Square — 
 
 Lady Nugent — and she is to present Lydia " 
 
 " Dear me ! And will Lydia present you ? " 
 "Yes," said Lucy. "She means to do a good 
 deal for her family. Father and mother were such 
 a pair of stick-in-the-muds, and had no idea of 
 getting on." 
 
 " They made the money, anyhow." 
 "Getting on socially, I mean. Think of this 
 awful Bedford Square ! Lydia's got a lovely red- 
 brick house in Pont Street. It belonged to that 
 R. A. who died lately. She chose it herself — with a 
 big studio, so that she can give parties. Ferdinand 
 gave her carte blanche. He used to have an old 
 barrack in Holland Villas Road. He is dreadfully 
 careless and abstracted, but he's got a fearful 
 temper, / know, though he is generally not mind- 
 ing things much. His best man — Mr. Verschoyle, 
 you know — picked him out of his studio in his old 
 painting-blouse at twelve o'clock on the morning 
 he was to be married ! He had quite forgotten ! 
 But Lydia was all ready. Everything was settled. 
 We had even rehearsed the wedding ceremony 
 several times — Toosie was clergyman — so that 
 there should be no hitch — and there wasn't ! " 
 " And where did they go for the honeymoon }^' 
 " To Lady Seymour's place in Devonshire. She 
 
40 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 lent it to Ferdinand. They're old friends of his. 
 So quiet and retired ! They must be very happy, 
 for they have not written once. It's a fortnight 
 ago now. This is my bridesmaid's dress altered. 
 Poor mother ! she watches the post every day for 
 a letter, and there never is one. It wouldn't take 
 her long to write a letter. We all think Lydia 
 very unkind. She might write, don't you think, 
 even if she is happy ? " 
 " Perhaps she isn't." 
 
 " Trust her ! " said Lucy. " If she wasn't we 
 should soon hear." 
 
 We were interrupted by what might have been 
 called an indiscreet cough in the back drawing- 
 room. 
 
 "Aunt Elspeth — waking up," exclaimed Lucy. 
 Aunt Elspeth never dared to go to sleep in the 
 back drawing-room in Lydia's time. *'Do go and 
 speak to her ! " 
 
 " Ah, and how did ye leave Lydia ? " asked the 
 old lady, who appeared to be under the impression 
 that I was her nephew-in-law. Nobody ever tried 
 to disabuse her of any impression she chose to be 
 under. It was known to be useless. " How is the 
 bonny lamb } Have you brought me a kiss from 
 her.?" 
 
 I explained that I was unprovided with that 
 commodity. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 41 
 
 " Where have ye hidden her ? " wailed the poor 
 old lady. " We're all fairly wearying for a sight 
 of her." 
 
 " Well, we are bearing up, Toosie and I," remarked 
 Lucy to me, as we drew the curtain and closed this 
 painful audience. " I don't know how it is, but old 
 women always adore Lydia. She makes a point 
 of behaving to them all as if they might leave her 
 money. It is a good rule. She's so happy, she is 
 forgetting it now, though. I do think she might 
 write to the poor old thing ! " 
 
 Young Fred Barker — I don't care for Fred, he is 
 in business in Manchester, and only comes home 
 now and then on a flying visit — caught me in the 
 hall as I went out. He slapped me on the back in 
 his detestable free-and-easy style. 
 
 " I say, St. Jerome, why didn't you come back 
 in time to see old Lydia turned off .^ You and she 
 were such pals. We don't know where she are! 
 She has not condescended to write to her sorrowing 
 family. Worries the mater terribly. I believe, 
 myself, she's up to something or other ! " 
 
42 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 " Look ! Second row of the stalls ! " said Cossie 
 Davenant, who was sitting next me, raising his 
 patronizing glasses. " That really is quite a pretty- 
 woman ! Do look at her, St. Jerome } " 
 
 " Now then, Cossie," I said, without looking, " let 
 me hear your idea of a really pretty woman — 
 modern, of course ? Hair dyed last fashionable 
 shade — nez retrouss^ — expression impudent — com- 
 plexion hidden under a coat of paint ? " 
 
 " Half right, half wrong, St. Jerome. This 
 woman has a straight little Greek nose, her hair — 
 well, it's too bright for dye, perhaps it's her own .'' 
 Her complexion is, I'm sure, but she looks as 
 impudent as you like — deliciously insolent ! Her 
 eyes are grey and clear — no stupid mystery about 
 them — and her eyebrows are a thin dark line, a 
 shade darker than her eyes, and there's any amount 
 of fun and go in the turn of her lips — they're rather 
 thin, but quite red " 
 
 "By Jove, it must be Lydia Munday!" I 
 
A HARD WOMAN 43 
 
 snatched his glass. Yes, it was. " She was only 
 married the other day. I did not know she was 
 in town. I must go and speak to her." 
 
 "You can introduce me if you like," said 
 Davenant, affecting carelessness. 
 
 "If she likes," I said ; and made my way with 
 some difficulty to where the bride was sitting beside 
 her handsome husband, with her little head in the 
 air, and looking straight before her. 
 
 " What a nuisance all these people must think 
 you ! " was her laconic greeting. " Ferdinand, let 
 me introduce you to Mr. St. Jerome, my guide, 
 philosopher, and friend " 
 
 " I imagined you were still in Devonshire," I 
 said. 
 
 '^Pas si bete ! " she replied coolly. Then, putting 
 up her pince-nez — she had actually started a 
 pince-nez ! — " Who is that nice boy you are here 
 with.?" 
 
 " Cossie Davenant. At least, I am sitting next 
 him." 
 
 " He has got what the nurses call an angel face." 
 
 " Angel is only skin deep, I am afraid." 
 
 " Ah, you don't like him. Who is he > " 
 
 " Nobody — the eldest son of Lord Fulham. Your 
 husband knows him, I think .? " 
 
 " Oh yes," said Munday indifferently. 
 
 " Why, you never told me, Ferdinand ! " 
 
44 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Why should I ? " he said lazily. 
 
 " Isn't he nice ? I am always seeing his name in 
 the society papers." 
 
 " Hardly a guarantee of respectability," said I. 
 " Poor Cossie ! He has been very badly brought up." 
 
 " By Lady Fulham > " 
 
 "By several women of my acquaintance. Do 
 you want to have a try ? " 
 
 " Well, would he be useful to know ? " asked Mrs. 
 
 Munday seriously. " I want to get a nice set about 
 
 >> 
 me. 
 
 " I scarcely think Cossie Davenant will improve 
 your set." 
 
 " Why, I thought he was smart." 
 
 " Oh, very ! I'll introduce him to you presently, 
 but I suppose I must go back now ; the curtain 
 is just going up." 
 
 " No, don't ; stay and talk to me." 
 
 " Wouldn't people object ? " 
 
 She leant towards her husband, and said in a 
 low voice, " Ferdinand, would you mind going and 
 sitting by Mr. Davenant, and then Mr. St. Jerome 
 can have your place by me ? " 
 
 " But I don't want to go and sit next that little 
 beast Davenant," he replied, still lower. 
 
 " Neither does Mr. St. Jerome. I am sure he 
 would much rather sit next me — would you not, 
 Mr. St. Jerome ,? " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 45 
 
 Munday went ; as, indeed, he could hardly help 
 doing. " Now we will have a good talk," said 
 Lydia Munday. 
 
 " But how about the play ? " 
 
 " Oh, the play can take care of itself ! We did 
 not come to see it, only to pass the time — it is so 
 dull staying in in the evenings in an hotel ! " 
 
 " When did you come up ? You were only 
 married a fortnight ago ! " 
 
 " Don't look so shocked ! We stayed five mortal 
 days in Devonshire — in that old mouldering lodge 
 of the past the Seymours lent us. One must go 
 away, I suppose, for a short time, for the sake of 
 appearances and to impress the servants ; but it is 
 a fearful bore — unless one could have gone to Paris, 
 or Monte Carlo " 
 
 " There is an old-fashioned sentiment called the 
 honeymoon " I began. 
 
 " Very old-fashioned — absurd, in fact. It is going 
 out, you know, luckily. People can't stand it. I 
 know I couldn't have borne it much longer. Fer- 
 dinand and I were always together — strolling about 
 in dripping green lanes — no help for it — everybody 
 avoided us like lepers ! And I moped, and he 
 moped ; and I saw all his faults, and he saw some of 
 mine ; and he had tempers, and I had tempers ; 
 and it isn't safe to indulge one's little moods in 
 a house temp. Elizabeth — is that a pun } — so I 
 
46 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 said to him one fine — no, one rainy day, * My 
 dear '" 
 
 " Have you got to that already ? " 
 
 " I disHke exaggerated terms of endearment. I 
 never use them." 
 
 " That is not what I meant, exactly. Go on." 
 
 " I said that I had had enough of it, that I knew 
 he was dying to get back to his models — I mean to 
 his pictures — and I to my furnishing, so we came 
 up to town and put up at the Metropole. I'm 
 simply awfully busy, going about to shops, and 
 exchanging wedding presents. People are so 
 silly " 
 
 " To give them ? " 
 
 " Not to give one cheques instead." She counted 
 on her fingers. " Let me see, I had fifteen teapots, 
 and twenty cream-jugs, and two pianos — and I 
 never play ; however, I've got good value for them 
 all. By the way, did you give me a china tea- 
 service from Good's } I get so mixed." 
 
 " I decline to say, lest I embarrass you." 
 
 " It would not embarrass me at all, I assure you. 
 I'm not sentimental, you know, and business is 
 business all the world over. Well, if you won't 
 tell me, you can't be cross if I change it ... As 
 I was saying — I wish you would hush that rude 
 man who keeps saying * Hush ! ' — as if any one 
 wanted to attend to a play like this ! — I consider 
 
A HARD WOMAN 47 
 
 propinquity is the worst enemy of affection. It is 
 the greatest mistake in the world to get too 
 intimate " 
 
 " Especially with one's husband." 
 
 " Lady Seymour told me that Sir Joseph and she 
 had never been parted a week since their wedding 
 day. ' It works so well, dear/ she said to me. 
 Considering that only the other day I saw Sir 
 
 Joseph Seymour " She broke off abruptly, and 
 
 covered her face with her hands. " There is going 
 to be a pistol ! Oh, dear ! " 
 
 " Shall I go and fetch your natural protector ? " 
 
 " Oh, if you want to leave me " 
 
 " Not at all," I said. " I was only thinking of 
 how bored your husband must be with Davenant." 
 
 "If you go, I shall get Mr. Davenant to come 
 here instead. Ferdinand knows him. I find 
 Ferdinand knows lots of nice people." 
 
 "Oh, everybody knows Cossie — including the 
 ladies of the ballet " 
 
 " I rather want to explore that type of young 
 man." 
 
 " It's a very common type now-a-days — the 
 decadent type — the old head on young shoulders 
 that our grandmothers always voted an impossi- 
 bility. But what could you expect ? It was 
 allowed to leave Eton at sixteen, it lay about on 
 sofas, and read French novels, and drank absinthe. 
 
48 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 It has been everywhere, and learnt nothing ; done 
 everything and enjoyed nothing ; lives for itself — 
 and the choice of a necktie " 
 
 " What a neat little paragraph for your next 
 novel ! Your Mr. Davenant quite excites my 
 curiosity now." 
 
 " I hoped I had put you off him." 
 
 " We never had anybody of that sort at home," 
 said she pensively. ** That reminds me — I was 
 going to ask you not to give me away if you should 
 happen to call in Bedford Square. We are not 
 supposed to be back in town yet." 
 
 " I know that," I said. " I called yesterday. 
 Your family is wretchedly anxious about you. 
 Would there be any harm in their knowing where 
 you are ? " 
 
 "They would all come bothering, and giving 
 advice — and they would be so fearfully shocked at 
 my leaving Devonshire ! They consider a bride 
 should be boxed up for the regulation fortnight at 
 least — they're old-fashioned, you know ! " 
 
 " But you might write." 
 
 " Then they would see from the postmark that 
 I am in London ! Oh, Mr. St. Jerome, nobody 
 would think you were a novelist ! " 
 
 *' Madam, you will find I am — to your cost." 
 
 " Are you going to put me in a novel ^ " 
 
 " With your permission." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 49 
 
 " I don't mind. Only you must make me very 
 smart and fashionable, you know." 
 
 " It would be impossible to make you anything 
 else," I said politely. " I shall study you. I shall 
 trace the outcome of the charming theories of life 
 you have been laying down : the dangers of pro- 
 pinquity, and so on. You will of course live 
 up to them and illustrate them in your own 
 person " 
 
 She laughed. " I see, you want me to be a 
 human document } This is what comes of being 
 the intimate friend of a novelist. Everything must 
 be grist that comes to his mill." 
 
 " Will you come to my mill ? " 
 
 " Poor Mr. St. Jerome ! I pity you. You will 
 take immense pains and fancy you have got me, 
 to the life, but it won't be me, all the same ! A 
 novelist has only got one type — that of the only 
 woman he ever loved. One reads his books, one 
 cherishes his ideals, and then one meets him and 
 he introduces ' Afy Wife ! ' Tableau ! Or Curtain ! 
 And even then his portrait of her isn't in the least 
 like. Man only knows one woman here below — 
 and mostly knows her wrong ! " 
 
 " Your remarks are profound. Is it the third or 
 last act that is going on ? " 
 
 Mr. Marischal, the lessee and manager of the 
 Piccadilly Theatre, who was *' strutting his brief 
 
 E 
 
50 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 hour" on his own stage, is a personal friend of 
 mine, and had sent me my stall. I caught his 
 glittering eye fixed on me reproachfully from time 
 to time. I was behaving disgracefully. But Mrs. 
 Munday would not take a hint. So I went on. 
 " Why don't you write a novel yourself ^ " 
 
 " I have never had time. Besides, I don't care to 
 give myself away for the benefit of Smith and 
 Mudie . . . Good heavens ! The play is over ! I 
 think it was too awfully stupid, don't you } " 
 
 " I am not competent to pronounce on it, thanks 
 to you. Will you and your husband come and 
 sup at the Savoy with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, with pleasure. Ask that Mr. Davenant." 
 
 " Certainly. But you are to talk to me a 
 little." 
 
 "I shall distribute my favours equally. Fer- 
 dinand, Mr. St. Jerome wants us to — what are ;'you 
 looking at ^ " 
 
 " That girl over there, five rows back ! " said 
 Munday. " I never saw such hair in my life ! 
 Look, Lydia, over there ! " 
 
 " Where .'* Sitting between the cormorant in 
 pink and the whale with the string of pearls round 
 her neck } Yes, I do see her. I think somebody 
 should lend her a comb." 
 
 " What would I not give for that girl to sit to 
 me ! " murmured the painter enthusiastically, fol- 
 
A HARD WOMAN 51 
 
 lowing her with his eyes. " I could make something 
 of her." 
 
 " How dreadful to be an artist," said Lydia, 
 " and look upon everybody as raw material ! 
 Ferdinand even tried it on with me at first — wanted 
 me to sit for his Elaines and Bellamours and 
 unearthly women of that sort. I declined. I look 
 far too healthy — don't I, Mr. St. Jerome ? " 
 
 Then I introduced her to Cossie, whom she 
 began to snub with her tongue and encourage with 
 her eyes at once ; and we went in two cabs to the 
 Savoy. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " I have asked Mr. Davenant to call when we get 
 straight. Don't you think he might amuse me ? " 
 she said to me, as we walked down the stairs of the 
 Savoy together. " This has been a very pleasant 
 evening, on the whole, though I did not think much 
 of the play. Now mind you don't go calling on 
 my people and defeating my little plans ! I am not 
 ready to see them yet. I'll tell them when I am." 
 
 " I will be absolutely discreet — but tell me, what 
 does your husband say to these little finessings } " 
 
 " Ferdinand thinks," — she burst out laughing, — 
 "he thinks that my family is treating me very 
 badly indeed." 
 
 " How so } " 
 
 " Because they have never been to see me." 
 
52 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " How can they, if they don't know where to find 
 you?" 
 
 " Ferdinand doesn't know that they don't know. 
 Do you think me quite a fool, Mr. St. Jerome.? 
 Good-night." 
 
 A fool ? No ! 
 
A HARD WOMAN 53 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Scene. — The school-room at 56, Bedford Square. 
 Lucy seiving. Fred smoking. Toosie singing. 
 Mrs. Munday enters in a rustle of silk and 
 clatter of high-heeled shoes. Sensation ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, family, how are you t 
 Fred here } Unexpected pleasure ! . . . Good 
 heavens, I've kissed you all ! I can't think why 
 I did. 
 
 Lucy. Considering this is the first time you've 
 condescended to come near us since you went 
 away 
 
 Toosie. And that you have never even answered 
 our letters 
 
 Mrs. Munday {waving her hand). There now, 
 children, don't all speak at once. I was busy — 
 you don't know what a business it is getting 
 married. I had no time to think of you. I came 
 the first moment I could. And I couldn't answer 
 all your letters, so I answered none, not to make 
 you jealous. See } When are we going to have 
 tea } I didn't see any signs of it down-stairs t 
 
54 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Lucy. My dear Lydia, it is only just half-past 
 four. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, it is quite time tea was 
 up. This is a muddly house ! 
 
 Fred (sarcastically). You see, dear, since we 
 lost the benefit of your supervision 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes, you have let yourselves go 
 since I married ! {Sitting down.) Lucy, don't 
 suck your thimble ! Toosie, don't waggle about 
 like that, you make me feel quite ill. What were 
 you singing when I came in 1 Go on with it. 
 (Toosie obediently begins to intone Schon Rohtraut.) 
 Sing up ! 
 
 Toosie (shutting the piano with a bang). It's no 
 good. I can't sing \.o you. 
 
 Mrs. Munday (seriously). My dear child, you 
 do not suppose it's any pleasure to me to listen to 
 you ! I only thought I might give you a hint or 
 two. I consider Fraulein Strumpf a perfect fool. 
 Please, don't sit winding your leg round and round 
 the piano stool in that idiotic way. Try to put 
 your shoulders in. Poor child, you're at the 
 awkward age 
 
 Toosie. I'm not ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Appearances are against you, 
 then ! {A head is put in at the door and hastily 
 withdrawn) Why, that was Aunt Elspeth ! Why 
 didn't she come in and see Me .? 
 
A HARD WOMAN 55 
 
 Fred. Probably daren't affront you in her old 
 cap. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I saw it. Really, Lucy, you 
 should dress Aunt Elspeth more decently. It's 
 your business, you are the one at home now — you 
 must really acquire some sense of responsibility . . . 
 Where's mother ? 
 
 Lucy. Out. Why didn't you say you were 
 coming ^ 
 
 Mrs. Munday. How is she ? 
 
 Lucy. Not very well, poor dear. She had one 
 of her attacks yesterday and it left her so weak. 
 She wants a great deal of care. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Give it, then. But old people 
 are always in a terrible hurry to consider themselves 
 invalids, you know. It is the greatest mistake to 
 coddle any one. I never do. You look rather 
 seedy, Lucy. You want iron, child. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, I'm not ill. I've got rather a colour, 
 I think. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes, you have — but it's yellow ! 
 That reminds me, — I wish you would let me have 
 that Empire muslin dress Aunt Elspeth gave you. 
 It is the only thing of yours that I admire, and I 
 know exactly how to arrange it — I see it all 
 
 Lucy. But I want it myself. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. My dear girl, you can't possibly 
 go on wearing it. It is far too young for you ! 
 
56 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Lucy {outraged). Well, I like that ! you are two 
 years older than me ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. How funny ! I seemed to 
 think it was the other way. Besides, I'm married. 
 An old girl makes a young married woman {laugh- 
 ing). Well, now what about that dress } (FRED 
 
 goes out, Too^lY. follows him.) 
 
 Lucy. We'll see. {Earnestly) Lydia, I do want 
 to consult you. Be an angel and tell me how to 
 alter my chiffon, the one I wore at the Malorys' — 
 you know ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I have forgotten it. Is it rather 
 an ugly shade of magenta ? — and are the sleeves 
 too small .'* — and is it too short ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, it was a failure, but it is such a 
 good silk. How shall I have it done ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Let me see ! Well — if it was 
 me, I should go in for those full pleats — but then, 
 for a short dumpy figure like yours — let me see ! — 
 oh, do it — do it anyhow ! 
 
 Lucy {crossly). What's the good of that ? You 
 are not helping me a bit, and I must wear it at the 
 Wilkinsons' on Tuesday, and I've worn it once 
 there already — and my " new " won't have come 
 home by then — and I did so want to look nice 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Keep calm! I suppose Mr. 
 St. Jerome is to be there } 
 
 Lucy. Yes — perhaps. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 57 
 
 Mrs. Monday. My dear child, I wouldn't 
 dress to him — I really wouldn't. It's such utter 
 waste of time. And you know you're getting on, 
 you ought really to be getting something settled ! 
 . . . Why not give your mind to Woffle .? He 
 would make a very nice little husband. 
 
 Lucy. Never, never ! Why, you refused him 
 yourself ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday {reflectively). Did I t I had 
 forgotten. It was ages ago, when I was quite 
 young. You are twenty-six, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy {hastily). Twenty-four. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, it's all the same. A girl is 
 as old as she looks, and I really don't think you'll 
 do better — you haven't at all a good way with 
 men — you can't snub them. Look at me ! (LuCY 
 regards her with awe.) I know exactly how to 
 manage them. Now you are as civil to men as if 
 they were women. I declare you haven't the spirit 
 to cut a dance, or to tell a man you haven't got 
 one left when you have a dozen. That is the only 
 way to 
 
 Lucy {piteously). I can't help it, Lydia. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't whine. You can't alter 
 yourself, of course. People are born different. 
 But about St. Jerome — take my advice, and leave 
 off thinking about him ! It's no use ! You're not 
 at all the kind of woman he cares for. 
 
58 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Lucy {pettishly), I don't care two pins about 
 him, — but he sat a whole hour in the conservatory 
 with me at the Wilkinsons'. 
 
 Mrs. Monday. More shame for you ! I 
 suppose there weren't many people there he knew. 
 But he doesn't care for you in that way one little 
 
 bit and never will. You are not Now, what's 
 
 the matter } (LuCY leaves the room in tears?) 
 That girl wants iron — she's quite hysterical. {Re- 
 enter Fred.) Well, Freddikins ! How long are 
 you up from Manchester for .? 
 
 Fred. As long as I like — and I never allow 
 anybody to call me by a nickname, please, Lydia. 
 I am a little too old for that sort of thing. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. 'Pity you look so deplorably 
 young then. I wonder anybody trusts you on the 
 Stock Exchange. {Sitting down on tJie arm of his 
 chair and rifling his pockets?) Hallo, a photograph ! 
 Let's see ! It's no good your trying to stop me, 
 Fred. 
 
 Fred. I see it isn't, short of tearing the things 
 to bits. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {looking at the photograph). 
 What a comic face ! First of all you think she's 
 all nose — till you look again and see she's all 
 mouth! She seems to be holding it open for 
 her eyes to drop into. And what enormous 
 ears ! 
 
A HARD WOMAN 59 
 
 Fred {bitterly). You haven't left her a feature 
 to stand on. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, I dare say her feet are big 
 enough. Who is it 1 
 
 Fred {sulkily). It's a girl in Manchester. 
 
 Mrs. Monday. She is holding a violin. 
 
 Fred. She happens to be a musician. 
 
 Mrs. Monday. Oh, does she.? What's her 
 name.? Don't be so reserved. {To TOOSIE, W/^ 
 re-enters tJte room) What is the name of this new- 
 flame of Fred's, Toosie } 
 
 Toosie {eagerly). Is it Miss Annabel Lee } 
 She's a great swell in Manchester. Fred goes to 
 all her concerts ; don't you, Fred .? 
 
 Fred {enthusiastically). She is quite young — 
 only twenty-two — but I really do think, Lydia, 
 she's got a brilliant future. 
 
 Mrs. Monday {coldly). I don't know about a 
 brilliant future, but I should say she had got a 
 shady past — to judge from that face. 
 
 Fred. What do you mean .? 
 
 Mrs. Monday. A regularly bad face. And 
 hopelessly common, too. Don't introduce her to 
 me whatever you do — I wouldn't know her. 
 
 Fred. She probably wouldn't know you — 
 except that you are my sister ! {Leaves the roontj 
 banging the door) 
 
6o A HARD WOMAN 
 
 M RS. M U NDAY {innocently^ looking round). What 
 is the matter with them all, I wonder ? Why have 
 they all gone away ? ( Tea is brought in.) And 
 why does Fred carry this musical girl's photograph 
 about in his pocket ? 
 
 ToosiE {bluntly). He is in love with her. I'm 
 not sure he isn't engaged to her — there ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't say " there " — it's vulgar. 
 Since when is Fred engaged ? And why wasn't I 
 told ? 
 
 TOOSIE. What's the good of telling you things ? 
 You always find out, you know. 
 
 ■ Mrs. Munday. Go and bring Fred back at 
 once. I must speak to him. 
 
 TOOSIE. I don't suppose he will give you the 
 chance — he's gone out. He's in an awful rage with 
 you for what you said about Annabel. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Maniac ! Where's Lucy .? 
 
 TOOSIE. Lying on her bed, with her eyes 
 regularly bunged up with crying. I've just seen 
 her. She won't be fit to go to the Lyceum to- 
 night, and she had looked forward to it ! It's a 
 horrid shame of you ! ( With violence^ Look 
 here, I wish you had stayed away on your horrid 
 honeymoon and not come back to bully us all and 
 make our lives miserable. There's Fred — you've 
 driven him out of the house ! There's mother — 
 she couldn't be more afraid of any one than she is of 
 
A HARD WOMAN 6i 
 
 you, unless it's the cook ! There's Lucy — you've 
 spoiled her eyes for the rest of the evening. I 
 can't think why people keep hateful married sisters 
 to plague them ! You're the family fiend, that's 
 what you are ! Do stay away and plague your 
 own husband, we don't want you ! Now I am going 
 to Lucy — poor thing ! Good-bye. I hope you've 
 enjoyed yourself — you needn't hurry to come again. 
 {Exit) 
 
 Mrs. Munday. What a family ! {Rings the 
 bell) Call a hansom, please ! . . . I don't think 
 I'll stay for tea. 
 
62 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 Ferdinand Munday's Studio. Mrs. Munday 
 opens tJie door and looks in, 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You sent for me, Ferdinand } 
 What is it } I'm in a tremendous hurry. 
 
 Munday. Oh well, then, it doesn't matter! 
 {Turns back to his easel.) 
 
 Mrs. Munday (Jtesitating). Well, not such a 
 very particular hurry. I am only arranging about 
 the house-warming. What was it } 
 
 Munday {appealingly). Come and sit for one 
 of these heads in the background ! Peggy Merri- 
 dew is late, and I can't get on. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {approaching lazily). I am not 
 sure I can condescend to sit for a figure in the 
 background. And Peggy Merridew is always late ! 
 How you do spoil your models, Ferdinand ! 
 
 Munday. How do I } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You pay them exorbitantly, 
 and all the same whether they come or not, and 
 then when they do come, you hardly look at them. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 63 
 
 but work away out of your own head. I don't 
 see what an idealist wants with models at all. 
 
 MUNDAY. I am an idealist, am I ? What is 
 your idea of an idealist ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, a man who paints a 
 woman turning into a snake before one's very eyes 
 must be an idealist, must not he ? 
 
 Munday. Say a realist. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Women are not snakes, Ferdi- 
 nand. That is an old exploded idea, just like that 
 other silly one about women being capricious and 
 all that. It is not true. Men are the inconstant 
 sex. Not you, dear. And there is no need to pay 
 models. There are dozens of pretty society women 
 that I know of, dying to sit to you for nothing. 
 Why not employ them .•* 
 
 Munday {laughing). Would not you be jealous } 
 
 Mrs. Munday {contemptuously). I wouldn't be 
 anything so commonplace ! Jealousy is the foible 
 of all artists' wives. Really, if you can get models 
 for nothing, for your beaux yeux — you have rather 
 nice eyes, Ferdinand — why pay Peggy Merridews ? 
 — isn't that her stupid name } 
 
 Munday. The Peggy Merridews are not as 
 pretty as the society women perhaps, but they 
 know their business thoroughly. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Anybody can sit. 
 
 Munday {with meaning). Try ! 
 
64 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Presently. I want to have a 
 look at "Lamia." . . . Well, I can't say I care 
 much for that old woman in the foreground. 
 
 Munday. That's a man — the sage Apollonius. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Old men always look such old 
 women in pictures ! And is the snaky part of 
 Lamia under the table, like a mermaid's tail ? 
 
 Munday {eagerly). Don't you remember the 
 scene, when the philosopher entered — 
 
 " The myrtle sickened in a thousand wreaths — 
 By faint degrees voice, lute, and pleasure ceased." 
 
 and then — 
 
 . . . "the bride's face, where now no azure vein 
 Wandered on fair spaced temples, no soft bloom 
 Misted the cheek, no passion to illume 
 The deep recessed vision ! " — 
 
 How does it go on ? 
 
 " Lamia no longer fair . . . . " 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, Ferdinand, do stop spout- 
 ing Keats. I wonder how long you could keep it 
 up .^ . . . Well {taking his arm and standing ifi 
 front of t lie picture) ^ Lamia looks rather like a dish 
 of snap-dragon. The light ought to be coaxed a 
 little bit more to the left. It makes her nose look 
 red. And that tone on the arm needs to be 
 stronger. It is too misty and vague — Cossie 
 
A HARD WOMAN 65 
 
 Davenant says your fault is a tendency to vague- 
 ness — make it out more ! Is that what you call 
 glazing ? It is very ineffective. You should work 
 up those shadows — they don't look solid 
 
 MUNDAY {smiling). Any more advice ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday {calmly). No, I think I have 
 said what I think. 
 
 Munday. Then, dear, will you give me an op- 
 portunity of putting your precepts into practice ? 
 Get up ! {Handing her on to the es trade.) 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Now mind you don't make it 
 like me ! 
 
 Munday. Why not? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I don't want people to say I 
 sit for my husband, and for one of the inferior 
 heads too. {A pause.) I wish you would paint 
 me properly. 
 
 Munday. I don't paint you improperly, I 
 hope. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I mean me, me, ME ! — a 
 portrait ! 
 
 Munday. Mrs. Hugo Malory asked me the 
 very same question the other day. What do you 
 think I answered } I said, " Lydia is the prettiest 
 woman in London — and the most unpaintable ! " 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I consider that rather a com- 
 pliment than not. It means that I dress properly, 
 and don't allow my partiality for you to affect 
 
66 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 my judgment. It means that I look French, and 
 fashionable 
 
 MUNDAY. And new and startling to the verge 
 of crudeness. Do you know your colours always 
 just don't set my teeth on edge, Lydia ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. They would be more fashion- 
 able if they just did. Besides, what can an artist 
 know of colour — dress colour, I mean } As for fit 
 — why, one and all, your idea is to make a woman 
 look as if she had a bad dressmaker and no figure 
 at all. Still, you might do a head of me in evening 
 dress. It*s such waste 
 
 MUNDAY. To have an artist on the premises 
 and make no use of him, you mean } However, it 
 would not really be economical, for I couldn't sell 
 you, you know. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Why not } 
 
 Munday. Would you like anybody who chose 
 to pay for it, to have your portrait t 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You could soon do another. 
 As long as you have me, what difference would it 
 make } What we have got to do is to get on 
 
 Munday. I should get on better if you would 
 sit still, dear. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. It is so difficult 
 
 Munday. I thought anybody could do it ! But 
 
 it is really very good of you 
 
 {A pause. He becomes absorbed^ 
 
A HARD WOMAN 67 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well ... I went to see them 
 all at home yesterday. 
 
 Munday. Oh— ah ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. They miss me quite dread- 
 fully. Lucy is ruining the servants, and Toosie is 
 getting quite unbearably cheeky. Fred's in love. 
 He often is. A Manchester girl. It's not serious, 
 but I must look after him a bit. 
 
 Munday. And how did Lucy and the others 
 account for never coming to see you all this time ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Letters miscarried, or some- 
 thing of that sort ! You are not attending to a 
 word I say ! 
 
 Munday. Yes, I am. Go on. What else ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, the cook's leaving — and 
 that tiresome Lucy won't marry Mr. Woffle. 
 
 Munday. Woffle! Woffle! Do I know Woffle .? 
 Why should Lucy marry Woffle ? The name's 
 enough. Why won't she — apart from the name ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, she says he proposed to 
 me first. I dare say he did, but what does that 
 matter ? He's a Q.C. 
 
 Munday. And you refused him ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh yes! . . . But then Lucy 
 is not likely to have many offers. She is rather 
 — so — too insignificant. 
 
 Munday. I should leave Lucy's affairs alone if 
 I were you. 
 
68 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Nonsense, Ferdinand ! What is 
 the good of a married sister if she doesn't advise ? 
 And I hate giving advice if it isn't taken. Mr. 
 Woffle would make her a very nice little husband. 
 
 Munday. But could she love Mr. Woffle } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, anybody can love anybody 
 if they try ! 
 
 Munday. Is that your philosophy ? Had you 
 to try very hard in my case ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. If you kiss me I shall lose my 
 pose ! 
 
 Munday. Do you suppose you have not lost it 
 a hundred times over .? Do try to be quiet, if you 
 want the picture to be a success. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I do! . . . I'll think of my new 
 dress. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Munday. Doesn't it fit ? Because you look 
 too dreadfully sad. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. How can I help looking sad if 
 you won't let me talk ? 
 
 Munday. All right! Chatter away as much 
 as you like, only don't mind if my replies are a 
 little vague, will you ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I certainly shall not talk if you 
 don't mean to listen. (A pause.) Ferdinand, I 
 wish you would tell me — I can't quite remember — 
 what is our exact income } 
 
A HARD WOMAN 69 
 
 MuNDAY. Did you ever know it ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Of course I knew, I made a 
 point of knowing, but IVe forgotten, somehow. 
 
 MuNDAY. And I am sure I don't remember. 
 Look at that nail in the wall, will you ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Please, Ferdinand, don't put 
 me off. I want to know. 
 
 Monday. Why should you trouble your little 
 head about it ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Ferdinand, my head is not 
 little ; it is a very good head for business, father 
 used to say, and I do so dislike that patronizing 
 way of speaking to women ! Things are changed. 
 We are not dolls and idiots and slaves any more. 
 
 Munday. You certainly are not. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I'm not a fool, and I hate to 
 be patronized, even by you, Ferdinand ; and I do 
 think one of us ought to take an intelligent interest 
 in money matters. 
 
 Munday {setting his palette carefully). Let it 
 be you, dear. I hate business. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes, I know; that's what I 
 meant. It isn't in your line. You are a genius. 
 
 Munday. Thank you ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. And geniuses are supposed to 
 live in the clouds, and not trouble themselves 
 about every-day matters. You idealize 
 
 Munday. And you realize ! 
 
70 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I don't know if you have 
 noticed it, but I am an exceedingly practical 
 woman ! 
 
 Munday. What, with that fluffy hair } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Do be serious, Ferdinand, and 
 listen to me. 
 
 Munday. I am listening. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Nonsense ! you are not attend- 
 ing a bit. Tell me exactly what you make in a 
 year ? 
 
 Munday. I don't know, exactly. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Then you ought to know, or 
 I ought. Well, shall we put it at a thousand 
 pounds ? 
 
 Munday. Sweet little Philistine ! No artist 
 worthy of the name has a settled income. We 
 live by windfalls. One year I don't sell an inch of 
 canvas. My works litter up the studio or scour 
 the country to exhibitions ; the next year I clear 
 the lot and pay two or three thousand pounds into 
 my banker's. It is all a matter of chance. I never 
 know if I'm a prince or a pauper. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Ah, but the chances are you 
 will be a prince. You are an awfully rising man, 
 sure to succeed, or else I should not have been 
 allowed to marry you. 
 
 Munday. An improving property, am I } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, dear, let's be business- 
 
A HARD WOMAN 71 
 
 like and strike an average. Nothing, or nearly 
 nothing, one year, and two thousand the next. 
 Average income, a thousand a year ? 
 
 MUNDAY. That sounds plausible. Who taught 
 you to do sums in your head ? Turn it a little 
 more to the right, by the way. 
 
 Mrs. MUNDAY. Oh, do listen, Ferdinand! I 
 don't often get a chance of talking to you about 
 this horrid dry old business. I am sure it bores 
 me dreadfully. 
 
 MuNDAY. Then drop it ! 
 
 Mrs. Monday. No, dear, it's important. 
 
 MuNDAY {carelessly). Then go on, if it amuses 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. It doesn't amuse me — but— 
 you see, father was on the Stock Exchange, and 
 naturally he thought and talked a good deal about 
 finance ; and so does Fred, and the Blandford 
 Square cousins — you know them ! 
 
 Munday {dabbling on his palette). Vaguely. 
 Well } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. They all talk and think a good 
 deal about — about 
 
 Munday. About money .? How dreary ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Not exactly money — about 
 stocks, and shares, and contango 
 
 Munday. Contango! What a pretty word! 
 Do you know what it means } 
 
72 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Of course. I was brought up 
 among all that sort of thing. They talked of 
 nothing else. 
 
 Monday. What > In the family circle ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Of course, just as you artists 
 talk of colours, and varnishes, and brushes, and 
 canvases 
 
 Munday. But we don't ! We would die sooner ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, then, you should, and 
 then you would be less cheated by your colourman ! 
 But, as I was saying, we girls 
 
 Munday. Did you and Lucy curl your hair 
 with contango, and go to bed on dreams 
 of omnium .? I don't know a bit what it all 
 means, but go on talking — your expression is 
 capital. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. But isn't it fortunate that we 
 do know something of business — that I do, at least ? 
 
 Munday. I don't see that it will do you much 
 good ; but go on — why is it fortunate > 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't you see how well it all 
 fits in } There are you, an improvident man of 
 genius ; here am I, a practical woman of business, 
 ready to take care of our money matters, and save 
 you the trouble, and the tiresome details 
 
 Munday {looking at her gravely for a moment). 
 You want to hold the purse-strings .? Oh, all 
 right ! I suppose it is an inherited instinct with 
 
A HARD WOMAN 73 
 
 you. Go ahead, only don't move your head for a 
 moment You are splendid just like that. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Ferdinand, you are not attend- 
 ing a bit ! 
 
 Munday. I am not, particularly. Do excuse 
 me — this is a most ticklish moment. Keep 
 still . . . 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You know, dear, by the terms 
 of my father's will, I have absolute control over my 
 own money . . .? 
 
 Munday. All right! ... It is coming splen- 
 didly ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Do you happen to know how 
 much it was, dear Ferdinand ? 
 
 Munday. How much was what ? Your fortune ? 
 I don't remember, exactly, at the moment. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I think I do. Fifty thousand 
 pounds, which were invested in Indian Fours, when 
 they stood at par, and consequently producing a 
 yearly two thousand pounds. 
 
 Munday {laughing). What a head you have ! 
 If ever there is a female Ministry I shall vote for 
 your being Chancellor of the Exchequer — that is, 
 if you women leave us a vote. You'll get yours, 
 of course, as things are going on. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. No, thank you, Ferdinand, I 
 don't want to vote. I can do very well as I am. 
 One man is quite enough for any woman to 
 
74 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 manage. Do attend ! You see, my money amounts 
 to just two-thirds of our whole joint income, calcu- 
 lating your share of it at the average which you 
 yourself have given me 
 
 MUNDAY. Have I given you any average ? I 
 haven't the least idea what I have been saying. 
 But you seem able to think for two. Well, what 
 then ? Head a little up ! 
 
 Mrs. MunDAY. Is that right > 
 
 MuNDAY. Capital ! Are you sure you are not 
 tired ? 
 
 Mrs. Monday. Not at all. I'm getting on 
 very nicely. Well, as I was saying, poor dear 
 father said to me a little time before he died, 
 " Lydia, look here ; you are a sensible young 
 woman ; you have known about money ever since 
 you were a baby, and you are going to marry one 
 of those artist fellows — he didn't know you 
 then particularly, Ferdinand, you know — and he 
 will go and put all your money into a red-brick 
 house ..." 
 
 Munday. On the contrary, it was yo7i who 
 insisted on putting me into a red-brick house. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes, I did. I know artists 
 mus^ live in red-brick houses ..." He will 
 quarrel with the dealers or the critics " — these are 
 father's words, not mine, you know — " or go off his 
 head, or come to grief somehow if you don't look 
 
A HARD WOMAN 75 
 
 after him . . ." Father was a little rough some- 
 times, but he always spoke to the point. 
 
 MUNDAY. Very pointed ! One might say 
 blunt 
 
 Mrs. Munday (Routing). I wish I hadn't told 
 you ; but I wanted to get something settled — I 
 wanted you to understand 
 
 Munday. Oh yes, I understand, I think. You 
 want to have the entire control of our income, 
 don't you 1 As it's chiefly yours, I see no reason 
 for objecting. Well, let it be so. I'll hand you 
 over my cheques as I get them . . . Meantime do 
 sit still for a little, dear, or are you tired t 
 
 Mrs. Munday {assuming an expression of intense 
 weariness). Very ! 
 
 Munday. Poor child ! Get down. Artists are 
 brutes ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. And I haven't arranged about 
 the house-warming. When can you let me have 
 the studio ? 
 
 Munday. When 1 What ? You want to turn 
 me out of my work-room .'* 
 
 Mrs. Munday. The twenty-eighth or the 
 thirtieth — which suits you best } 
 
 Munday. Both equally badly. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, the thirtieth suits me 
 best 
 
 Munday. But {There is a knock at the door.) 
 
76 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Here's the model ! I shall go. 
 Please, Ferdinand, don't make difficulties about 
 the studio. We took this house on purpose 
 
 Munday. Did we ? But I 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Now you are going to be tire- 
 some, after I have been so nice to you ! 
 
 Munday. Oh — all right-— do as you like ! I'll 
 hire a barn. {Enter tJie model') Go and put on 
 your dress at once. Miss Merridew. You are 
 shamefully late ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Good-bye, Ferdinand. Haven't 
 I been useful to you ! {A side ^ as she goes out) It's 
 not bad business sitting to Ferdinand, one gets 
 something settled ! 
 
 ***** 
 {The model comes in from the dressing-room and 
 takes up her position. Munday paints in silence. 
 Site tur7is and turns a diamond ring on her 
 
 finger.) 
 
 Munday {sudde^ily). Hullo, Peggy, who has 
 been giving you diamonds t 
 
 The Model {with dignity). The person, sir, 
 who has the best right to do so. {Enters into a long 
 explanatio7i.) 
 
 ***** 
 
 Mrs. Munday {coming in^ after lunch^ two hours 
 later). What's the matter, Ferdinand .•* You look 
 fearfully cross. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 77 
 
 MUNDAY. My picture is done for ! Peggy 
 Merridew is going to be married. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. How very wrong ! How dare 
 she ? 
 
 Munday. Well, it's not exactly an immoral 
 proceeding, is it ? If she would only go through 
 her dozen more sittings, I could pass it over. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, make her go on ! 
 
 Munday. Can't. Had no bond. These models 
 have us in their power. She sails for America in 
 ten days. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. She's a hideous little toad, 
 with a mouth like a church door. 
 
 Munday. It is a beautiful mouth — a tragic 
 mouth. It is just her mouth I can't do without. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I know a dozen prettier, any 
 day. 
 
 Munday. Yours, for instance ! But if it isn't 
 the mouth one wants — to paint ! Peggy's is unique. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Unique ! I saw a girl some- 
 where with a mouth like that — the other day — 
 just like that — do let me remember! 
 
 Munday {fretfully). And if you do remember 
 it will make no difference. You can't go up to a 
 stranger and ask her to sit. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Can't I though.? If I knew— 
 if I could remember — t (A pause.) I have it ! 
 Don't you worry, Ferdinand. You've married a 
 
78 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 sensible woman. Kiss me ! {Glancing at the picture 
 on the easel.) Upon my word, I don't see how you 
 can admire me and that picture at the same time. 
 
 MUNDAY. I am not sure I do admire my own 
 picture. One has moments of self-distrust. Con- 
 fess you hate it } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I like Tissot's things. But 
 there is no need for me to admire your pictures ; it 
 is for the people who buy them, and so long as 
 
 they're pleased ! The only thing / care about, 
 
 is to see them finished and out of the studio . . . 
 and you don't turn out half enough pictures, 
 Ferdinand, now when you are the fashion. Why 
 don't you knock 'em off.? — one a week.? — I'm 
 sure you could, easily. But you are so frightfully 
 conscientious ! However, that's your way, and far 
 be it from me to interfere with you. Good-bye ! 
 Paint nicely! What are you shaking your head 
 about } (Exit.) 
 
 ***** 
 
 Munday (sighing). Poor girl ! . . . She's quite 
 hopelessly outside it all ! . . . 
 
A HARD WOMAN 79 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 " Ah, there you are ! What a crowd, isn't it ? 
 My husband ? Oh, he isn't here, he hates Private 
 Views. It is no place for an artist ! . . . No, I 
 haven't been round yet. Too much effort . . . 
 The Prime Minister in the next room, you say, 
 Evelyn ? Well, what then ? I am not going to 
 help to mob him . . . Where zs your picture, 
 Mr. Talbot ? The third room ? I shall certainly 
 go and look at it . . . Mr. Davenant, do look 
 after Nevill. I'm supposed to be taking care of 
 her, and I've lost her. You want to stay with 
 me } Oh no, you can't. I'm tired of you. Be- 
 sides, I want to talk to Mr. St. Jerome. Mr. St. 
 Jerome, I haven't seen you for an age." 
 
 Lydia Munday had taken up her position in 
 the world. I looked at her critically as she stood 
 there, calm, smiling, reposeful in the fussy crowd, 
 and marvelled at the cleverness with which the 
 little Philistine of Bedford Square had caught 
 the tone of dlas^ indifference which distinguishes 
 
8o A HARD WOMAN 
 
 the hardened Private Viewer of many seasons. I 
 had reason to believe that it was her first. 
 
 " Oh, I'm so happy ! " she said joyously. I 
 thought she was alluding to the success of her 
 husband's picture, of which every one was talk- 
 ing, but she soon disabused me. *' I am quite the 
 best-dressed woman in the room." 
 
 " Your husband's design ? " said I. 
 
 " Ferdinand ! He couldn't design a chic dress 
 if he tried. No, Madame Cromer." 
 
 " Not the Madame Cromer } " 
 
 " Why not } I can afford it. I've simply frozen 
 to her. She's more a friend than a dressmaker." 
 
 " Well, the dress is certainly a remarkable success. 
 So is the * Lamia,' by the way." 
 
 "Yes, and I left Ferdinand in a dreadful state 
 of despondency about it." 
 
 " Ought not some one to go and reassure 
 him } " 
 
 "Are you suggesting that I should leave this 
 festive scene, and rush back to Ferdinand with 
 the news .-* Oh, it will keep very well till I go 
 home in due course. It isn't as if we had sold it, 
 though I hope I shall sell it . . . Do you know 
 many people here t You may point them out to 
 me, but unobtrusively, please, I don't want to be 
 supposed to be a lady-journalist whom you are 
 feeding with ' copy.' That's the correct term, isn't 
 
A HARD WOMAN 8i 
 
 it ? I got it from Nevill . . . Who is that death's 
 head over there crowned with flowers ? " 
 
 " One of the noblest women in the world " 
 
 " I thought she might be a celebrity . . . Just 
 look at May Bowen doing her hair in the glass 
 of Tadema's picture ! As if that hat ever could 
 suit her in this world ! . . . She's coming this 
 way ! Talk to me." 
 
 " Mrs. Bowen ! But she used to be your dearest 
 friend." 
 
 " Dearest friends make the best enemies. I 
 don't want to be bothered by her just now. And 
 who is this } " 
 
 " Miss Grant. She paints." 
 
 " Ah, that accounts for the fit of her jacket, 
 poor thing ! " 
 
 " Some people think her the coming woman." 
 
 " Every other woman in the room, nearly, has 
 been described as that to me. Coming women 
 will soon be a drug in the market. And who is 
 this Vision of Sin in mud-colour } Another C. W. .? " 
 
 " That is Mrs. Simpatica Maple-Durham. She's 
 writing a novel — a tremendous affair, they say. 
 The story of herself and her husbands. 1 forget 
 if it's two or three." 
 
 " The novel of the future can only be written by 
 a woman with a past, I see," said Lydia. " Mrs. 
 Maple-Durham seems quite wasteful of husbands. 
 
82 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 She is a Bohemian, I suppose. I hate Bohemians. 
 They are only bourgeois with the bloom off. They 
 are no cleverer than the others, and they neither 
 tub nor say their prayers. And Bohemia is played 
 out — not the fashion now ! . . . No, Evelyn. I 
 have not seen your mother for at least twenty 
 minutes. Try to bear up. No one will eat 
 you." 
 
 "Shall I try to find her for you.?" I said to 
 the forlorn young lady. She accepted my offer, 
 but I lost her at the very next group, and came 
 back to Mrs. Munday, who was talking to a friend 
 of her husband's, the earnest and philanthropic 
 Verschoyle. 
 
 "What do I think of the show.? Well, not 
 much. I never saw so many dowdy people in 
 my life. The pictures, you mean } Oh, I shall 
 come and look at them another time. Lots of 
 pretty people } Oh yes ! Mrs. Bowen } I think 
 she is quite lovely, and that white bonnet suits 
 her to perfection ! . . . What did you do that 
 for } " she remarked to me, when Verschoyle had 
 passed on. 
 
 "Do what.?" 
 
 " Help Evelyn Ward to find the chaperon she 
 had just succeeded in losing! That's only her 
 pose. She is always lost and gone before — out of 
 her mother's way." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 83 
 
 " And allow me to ask yon what you meant by- 
 raving about Mrs. Bowen to Verschoyle ? " 
 
 " Policy, dear friend ! One must always say 
 other women are pretty when one is asked, or 
 else people think one is jealous." 
 
 "Does that rule hold good with our sex, I 
 wonder } " 
 
 " It is a rule you all neglect, at any rate. Cossie 
 Davenant is always abusing you." 
 
 " What are you doing with Cossie Davenant, 
 may I ask ? Training him up in the w^ay he 
 should not go ? " 
 
 She beamed. 
 
 " I am the only person who has any influence 
 over him — absolutely. He says so himself." 
 
 '* What does Lady Fulham say .? " 
 
 " She can't thank me enough ! You know it is 
 the very best thing in the world for a boy to be 
 taken up by a young married woman, who will 
 let him talk to her, and confide in her, and who 
 will take the trouble to advise him, and have the 
 heart to snub him when he needs it.'* 
 
 " Indeed I don't think any young man would 
 receive an education sentimentale at your hands." 
 
 " You think not ? " said she, laughing. " At 
 any rate I help to raise his standard of female 
 excellence — give him an ideal, and keep him out 
 of the society of actresses and — ladies one knows 
 
84 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 by name rather than by reputation, don't you 
 know ! I am sure I am very kind to allow him 
 to bore me, poor boy." 
 
 "Are you sure you are not kind only to be 
 cruel?" 
 
 " Do you mean he might fall in love with 
 me ? " said she, with great directness. " Well, 
 that wouldn't hurt him ! . . . Do you see that girl 
 over there, with Cossie Davenant — in a shockingly 
 ill-fitting blue gown ? It pains Cossie very much." 
 
 "Never mind the gown. The girl inside it is 
 lovely. Strangely like the principal figure in your 
 husband's ' Lamia,' too ! " 
 
 " No wonder, when she sat for it. That is Nevill 
 France. Ferdinand admires her tremendously. 
 He did, the first moment he saw her — so did you ! 
 Don't you remember — the Burne-Jones girl — at 
 the theatre — a month or two ago ? " 
 
 " I vaguely remember. Is she a model, then .'' " 
 
 " No, not a model, exactly, but a regular 
 Bohemian — such a character ! Take me up to 
 tea, and I will tell you how I picked her up. It 
 was funny. How cross Cossie will be !" she 
 murmured delightedly, as we went up-stairs and 
 secured a table whence we could look down over 
 the balcony on to the crowd below. "There he 
 is, with Nevill, looking for me. He can't stand 
 her, she's too young for him. But I brought her, 
 
A HARD WOMAN 85 
 
 so I told him off to look after her. I have taken 
 her up, you know/' 
 
 '' She makes a capital foil ! " 
 
 *' Yes, did you ever see such a dress, and such 
 a way of doing her hair ? Exactly like a Burne- 
 Jones picture. She was most nice about it, poor 
 girl, and quite willing to alter it, as she was going 
 out with me. But I decided it was better to let 
 her stick to her own style. *My dear Nevill,' I 
 said, ' your style is '* flop," and you wouldn't look 
 right in ordinary civilized dress. Do just stay as 
 you are,' and she did." 
 
 " I am glad of it," I said. " She looks like an 
 angel." 
 
 " Like an actress, I think," said Lydia, " but her 
 manners are quite nice. I wonder where she got 
 them } She has no style, of course — how could 
 she have ? She admires me — tries to copy me. It's 
 rather pathetic. I'm really quite fond of her, and 
 she's so useful about the house, poor little thing ! " 
 
 " Poor little thing ! She's the tallest woman in 
 the room. You mean poor and unconnected, I 
 suppose. But tell me all about it and how you 
 discovered her ? " 
 
 " Oh, my descent into Bohemia ! . . . Well, you 
 must know, Ferdinand's favourite model actually 
 deserted him to get married, the other day, and 
 there wasn't another mouth like hers in London 
 
86 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 — at least Ferdinand said so. But I remembered 
 that girl at the theatre, and I promised Ferdinand 
 I would unearth her for him, and I did. I have 
 the cheek of the devil, Ferdinand says. If you 
 remember, we noticed her go back to the door 
 that led into the stage, as we went out, and the 
 pew-opener — I mean the ouvrettse — that let her 
 through called her * Dear ' " 
 
 " They all do that." 
 
 " Well, I concluded she was going behind to 
 see Mrs. Marischal ; and as Cossie knows the 
 Marischals — Cossie knows all sorts of queer 
 people — I got him to find out all about her for 
 me, and he did. She was a Miss Hester Nevill 
 France, and she lived at lo, Talgarth Mansions, 
 Waterloo Road." 
 
 " And how did that advance you } " 
 
 " I went at once, and dug her out." 
 
 " Without knowing her ? " 
 
 " I want to get Ferdinand on, and a good model 
 is half the battle. Well, to proceed — I didn't 
 know where in the waste places and ends of the 
 earth the Waterloo Road was, but I put on a 
 perfectly plain dress " 
 
 " I see, so as not to startle Bohemia with your 
 magnificence — and not too much loose cash in 
 your pocket — and you left your watch at home, — 
 lest you should be robbed ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 87 
 
 " It's better to be careful ! . . . Well, I found 
 Talgarth Mansions, and I read her name in a 
 rack below. I went straight up. There were 
 horrid macadam stairs, and lots of babies sprawl- 
 ing on them, and dreadful slipshod women kept 
 putting their heads out and staring at me . . . 
 and then it got quite dark, and I fell over a coal- 
 scuttle, and a man came out with a pipe and 
 asked me what the devil I wanted ^ He musi 
 have been a Socialist. I never saw one near 
 before. Then, at the very top — I nearly sat down 
 on the stairs, only it might have dirtied my dress 
 — I found a door and a can of milk in front of 
 it, and a label pinned to the knocker, * Not at 
 home till six.' It was five then." 
 
 " That ought to have been enough for 
 you." 
 
 " Not at all ! I wasn't going to be beaten. I 
 had come to see her, and I meant to see her. 
 I thought most likely she was only shamming, so 
 I knocked. There was a little scuffle inside — and 
 she actually opened the door herself. It was too 
 dark for her to see me properly. I said ' Miss 
 France, I believe ? ' — and she said * Yes } ' — ques- 
 tioningly, you know. I think she was a little 
 ashamed of being seen in an old frock. And 
 then I said that I had come on rather a curious 
 errand, but I hoped she would forgive the intru- 
 
88 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 sion when she knew what it was — all in my best 
 manner, you know ! " 
 
 " And did she ask you to come in ? " 
 
 " I can't say she exactly invited me — she was 
 rather stand-offish at first — but I managed to 
 insinuate myself past her — little thin slip of a 
 thing — and there I was in the drawing-room — by 
 courtesy ! It was what they call a self-con- 
 tained flat — very self-contained ! There wasn't 
 room to swing a cat — does anybody ever want to 
 swing a cat ? But it was extremely clean — much 
 cleaner than I expected — with only a charwoman 
 to come in once a day — she has no servant. But 
 there were horrible pliable picnic chairs, and a 
 lamp that smelt, and little unframed pictures on 
 the walls, and school-room bookcases hanging 
 to strings. I don't suppose the whole turn-out 
 came to more than ten pounds. Her bedroom 
 was a mere cupboard — I told her it wanted 
 ventilation." 
 
 " It's a strong measure, isn't it, to go to the 
 house of a girl you did not know, and insist on 
 going in, and examining everything, and finding 
 fault with everything.? There isn't a man would 
 dare do it." 
 
 " I dare say not," said she contemptuously. 
 " Men always get women to do their dirty work 
 for them ! It is a little way they have. Ferdinand 
 
A HARD WOMAN 89 
 
 wanted her, so I got her for him. But it wasn't 
 easy to persuade the child, I can tell you. Oh 
 no ! she was not a professional model — and she had 
 been asked to sit a hundred times, and had always 
 refused — hadn't time. But I buttered her up, and 
 told her how I admired her style — if style it can 
 be called, that style is none — and explained to 
 her what a compliment it was for an artist in 
 Ferdinand's position to want to paint her " 
 
 " Did she know his work ^ " 
 
 " She pricked up her ears and showed some 
 interest when I mentioned his name — remem- 
 bered a picture of his, exhibited two years ago, 
 before we were married — the Aucassm et Nico- 
 lette — it made some stir at the time ! She 
 remembered it better than I did. I always 
 thought it a silly sentimental thing, as if a woman 
 was likely to go walking about barefoot on the 
 wet grass under any circumstances whatever ! . . . 
 And then we began to talk, and she gradually 
 unfroze . . ." 
 
 " I fancy Ferdinand's was the name you conjured 
 with." 
 
 " Oh no ; she was only waiting for an oppor- 
 tunity to cave in, I had been so nice to her. I 
 can be very 'hafifable' when I like, as our old 
 cook used to say. And I took a tender interest 
 in her ugly old amateur mural decorations — gesso 
 
90 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 or something — and her helpless dabs of paint she 
 called water-colours. Then, when I rose to go, 
 I said, to clinch the matter, * And you will come, 
 won't you ? ' And she answered rather stiffly and 
 stagily, * I shall be proud if I can be of any use to 
 the painter of that picture.' So we settled it, and she 
 came, and she wouldn't be paid, and I had to tell 
 Ferdinand she was paid, and that it was an arrange- 
 ment between me and her, or he wouldn't have 
 stood it, so don't give me away ! . . . Now let us go 
 down-stairs again. I'm tired of tea. I will introduce 
 you to Nevill, if you like, and relieve poor Cossie." 
 
 " Thank you ! Tell me, what is the honest 
 employment from which you have abstracted Miss 
 France ? She is that modern anomaly, a working 
 woman, I suppose 1 " 
 
 " She is an orphan, who has lost both parents. 
 Her mother was half Italian. Yes, she earns her 
 own living. She is by way of being secretary to 
 the editor of some second-rate paper or other, and 
 does odd bits of type-writing. But she thinks her 
 vocation is the stage. She is great friends with 
 Marischal of the Piccadilly Theatre. All I can 
 say is, why does not he take her on if she's good 
 for anything? I don't encourage her about her 
 acting. I want to keep her for Ferdinand now. 
 A good model is better than a second-rate actress, 
 don't you think } " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 91 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 " What a thing it is to have a mouth that won't 
 shut, and eyes like saucers ! " said Mrs. Munday 
 pensively, as she stood by her husband's easel in a 
 costume that successfully defied every known law 
 of harmony, and surveyed his rendering of "the 
 Burne-Jones girl." " Then the artists all rave 
 about you .-* " 
 
 " Quite so ! " said Munday. " The artists rave 
 about Nevill, and the smart people about you. So 
 you're even. Keep a little way off, dear, or you'll 
 spoil my eye . . . Where are you going ^ " 
 
 " I can't think why you never like my clothes, 
 Ferdinand. I am supposed to dress very well. 
 This is the new blue." 
 
 " Is it ? It sears my eyeballs ! " 
 
 " Ah, your eye is untrained. You have never 
 been married before, have you ? Where am I 
 going ? Eventually to the Fulhams' garden-party, 
 and to drive first in the park, for my sins, with 
 Mrs. Bonchurch. She is coming for me at three." 
 
 " The Gilded Pill ! " 
 
92 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " It's a shame to call her that, because she's rich 
 and ugly ! " 
 
 "It was your own phrase, I think." 
 
 " Oh — well — of course it's clever ; but don't let it 
 get about. We must keep in with Mrs. Bonchurch. 
 She may be useful to us." 
 
 " I don't see how." 
 
 " She might ask you to paint her portrait." 
 
 " Heavens ! " 
 
 " I really don't see why she shouldn't," said Mrs. 
 Munday seriously. " She's very much inclined to 
 have it done, if I could only bring her up to the 
 scratch." 
 
 " Please don't try, for it would make me utterly 
 miserable ... By the way, Wigan wants the 
 * Lamia.' " 
 
 "I knew he would!" exclaimed Mrs. Munday 
 triumphantly. " I was so civil to him at the 
 private view the other day ! Now^ what have I 
 said wrong .<* " 
 
 " I don't like it." 
 
 "Don't like what? Well, no more do I ! If 
 you think I enjoy being polite to snuffy old dealers 
 and lumpy millionairesses for your sake — but I 
 do it ! " 
 
 " Don't do it then, please. I don't like my wife 
 to go down into the arena and fight with h-less 
 dealers and " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 93 
 
 " Somebody must/' 
 
 " Not at all ! There's no need ! If an artist 
 cannot get on without * booming/ and all that sort 
 of thing, he doesn't deserve to get on at all. 
 Advertisement is the curse of the age/' 
 
 " Curse or not, it is the one thing needful now- 
 a-days. I defy any one to get on without it, even a 
 beauty. Even a beauty has to be * boomed ' if she 
 is to succeed at all. And as for an artist ! I think 
 it is very conceited of you, Ferdinand, to fancy that 
 you, more than other artists, can afford to neglect 
 the ordinary resources of business ! " 
 
 "My business is to paint good pictures/' said 
 Munday resolutely, " and all the rest may go to the 
 devil. I want to do some good work before I die/' 
 
 '*So you shall, dear/' said Mrs. Munday, as if she 
 were talking to a child. " Paint away and don't 
 bother about practical matters. It isn't in your 
 line. You were born a genius. Geniuses always go 
 to the wall unless they have some one to look after 
 them. You have got me. I'm awfully practical. 
 I can go about and look after your interests. You 
 seem to have got a good deal of that old silly stay- 
 at-home harem ideal of women hanging about you 
 still. That's all utterly exploded now. Women 
 can do anything ! You just paint the pictures, and 
 I'll see that they sell. What did you ask for the 
 'Lamia'.?" 
 
94 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Five hundred." 
 
 " — Guineas ? " 
 
 " I fancy I did not specify." 
 
 " Ferdinand ! " 
 
 "What depths of moral condemnation ! " 
 
 " Well, it is tiresome of you, Ferdinand." 
 
 "Dear," said he, with some slight hesitation, 
 " I have no doubt you are very clever and practical 
 and all that " 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " I had rather you kept out of that sort of thing. 
 Leave it to me, that's a good girl." 
 
 "As you please, Ferdinand. How old-fashioned 
 you are ! Wigan will cheat you, of course — any- 
 body can cheat you. I don't wonder you have 
 never got rich ! You are far too easy with people. 
 They don't love you a bit the more, and think you 
 a fool into the bargain . . . What is it.?" to the 
 servant. 
 
 "Some flowers, ma'am, with Mr. Davenant's 
 compliments." 
 
 " That boy is becoming a perfect nuisance," said 
 she, taking them from the girl's hands. 
 
 "Abate him then." He had gone back to his 
 easel. 
 
 " I do. I am always taking him down pegs. 
 And yet he thinks me the most delightful woman 
 in London ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 95 
 
 " Of course, so do I," said her husband politely. 
 
 "Ah, but Cossie thinks so out loud." 
 
 "Pays you compliments, you mean . . . Ah, 
 well ! " 
 
 " Do you consider I flirt with him, Ferdinand ^ " 
 
 " I don't think about it, dear . . . Stand a little 
 that way, out of the light." 
 
 " Why don't you think about it } " 
 
 " Haven't time ! " 
 
 " You are a most confiding husband, I must say. 
 You never even asked me why I didn't get back 
 from Fourth of June on Monday last till ten 
 o'clock.?" 
 
 " I concluded you stopped and dined with my 
 sister. She was of the Fulham party, wasn't she .? " 
 
 " Yes, but I didn't come home with her." 
 
 " Didn't you .? " 
 
 "Didn't she tell you I didn't.? How very 
 * sporting ' of her ! " 
 
 " Geraldine isn't a gossip, thank heaven ! " 
 
 " I sometimes think she isn't a woman at all ! " 
 
 " She is a very good woman." 
 
 "Very good, almost a frump. Beg pardon, 
 Ferdinand, I didn't say ^uiU . . . Oh, she really is 
 very good, and not a bit interfering. When I first 
 married, she did try it on a bit. It was, ' If you 
 ask me for my advice, dear — .? ' * But I don't ask 
 you ! ' I used to answer innocently, and she very 
 
96 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 soon dropped it. Nobody has ever interfered with 
 me successfully." 
 
 " Poor Geraldine only wanted to help you." 
 
 "Ah, but I didn't want help. I took hold of the 
 ropes at once. Not but what I get on very well 
 with Geraldine. I make a point of getting on well 
 with all your people, Ferdinand, but I'm glad you 
 did not give me a mother-in-law to grapple with. 
 She had the good taste to die before I came on 
 the scene." 
 
 " I was very fond of my mother," said Munday 
 coldly. 
 
 "Oh yes, I know. You're a charming family. 
 Though I confess I found Geraldine a little dis- 
 appointing after what I expected. She's so very 
 simple — not smart at all. There's not a bit of 
 what Ouida calls ' patrician insolence ' about 
 her." 
 
 " Why should there be t She only married a 
 law-lord." 
 
 " Ferdinand, why need you go and cry down 
 your own family .'* How do you know I didn't 
 marry you for your connections .?...! didn't, dear, 
 of course. I married you for your own sweet self. 
 . . . Still, I wonder you don't want to hear all about 
 my astonishing adventures on the Fourth of June— 
 and who was my cavalier — and why I was so late 
 home." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 97 
 
 '* You can tell me all about it if you like." 
 
 ** No, it would bore you . . . What a time that 
 woman is coming ! Tell me, shall I wear Cossie's 
 flowers ? " 
 
 "It depends whether they go with your dress 
 or not." 
 
 "That's just what I was thinking. I always 
 sacrifice sentiment to expediency." 
 
 " Is there sentiment ? . . . Dear me ! " 
 
 " On his side I suppose there is, a little ... I 
 know you hate Cossie, Ferdinand." 
 
 " How can you tell .? " 
 
 "Principally because you are so awfully polite 
 to him." 
 
 " That is a very good way of concealing one's 
 dislike, isn't it } " 
 
 " Ah, but you do, I know. Why don't you like 
 him?" 
 
 " If you like him, it is enough." 
 
 " I do think, Ferdinand, it is most unreasonable 
 of you," she said pettishly. " He is a very nice 
 boy indeed — a little spoilt, perhaps, but a dear 
 boy. What can you have against him ^ " 
 
 "Oh, don't let us talk about him." 
 
 " Ferdinand, you have only one fault." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " You never will argue." 
 
 "Isn't it wiser not.?" 
 
 H 
 
98 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " It is very insulting. Every one likes to say his 
 say." 
 
 " I don't prevent you saying yours." 
 " One can't argue alone." 
 
 " I see," said he, laying down his brushes, and 
 putting his hands on her shoulders. " You want 
 your cues given you ! But you will never get a 
 man to see that. / can't. I would sooner give 
 in. I can stand anything but a wrangle . . . 
 Come, dear, you have married me, you must take 
 me as I am." 
 
 " I suppose I must," said she. " Well, good-bye. 
 Nevill is coming to sit, isn't she > She can stay 
 dinner if she likes." 
 
 " Could not you — " said Munday, with some hesi- 
 tation, " contrive to stay in sometimes when Miss 
 France is sitting .<* " 
 " What for .? " 
 
 " To chaperon her — a little." 
 " Well, this is the first time I ever heard of a 
 model needing a chaperon ! " 
 
 " Miss France is a lady as well as a model." 
 " A little type-writer girl — a second-rate actress ! 
 And look what a life that is ! Not much chaperon 
 about it ! You know every actress has to let her 
 ^anager kiss her before he'll even grant her an 
 interview ! You need not laugh. I have heard it is 
 like that. One has to propitiate them. That is 
 
A HARD WOMAN 99 
 
 what she would be doing if she was not sitting to 
 you." 
 
 " I hope not," said Munday. " Still, if she really 
 wants to go on the stage, we are doing her an 
 injury by keeping her away from it. I have been 
 thinking about it all, and " 
 
 " Don't think, dear, paint. Nevill's acting is all 
 in the vague. We don't even know that she can 
 act, and she can pose, at any rate. The girl's far 
 better off sitting to you and going out into respect- 
 able society with me sometimes, than slaving at 
 home over a typing machine, or trotting about 
 London interviewing managers and theatrical 
 agencies. Besides, she's awfully useful to me. 1 
 couldn't do without her, simply." 
 
 " So long as she is happy . . . And, Lydia, I 
 have never mentioned money to her, as you said 
 it would hurt her feelings if I did, but you said 
 you would make some arrangement with her about 
 paying for the sittings. I hope that you have 
 made it very much worth her while. Nothing 
 v/ould have induced me to accept her services 
 otherwise." 
 
 " I know," said his wife, rising, and kissing him 
 on the forehead. 
 
 " I can trust you," he said, putting up his hand 
 to draw her face down to his. But she was gone. 
 
loo A HARD WOMAN 
 
 An hour later she was sitting under an ancestral 
 oak on the Fulhams' lawn at Kensington, while 
 one interesting or important person after another 
 came and exchanged repartees with her. They 
 called it "crossing a lance with Mrs. Munday." 
 
 "You never give me a chance of speaking to 
 you," said the son of the house crossly, when at 
 last the seat next her was vacant. 
 
 " I can talk to you at any time/' 
 
 " And you have not put on the flowers I sent 
 you ! " 
 
 "They did not happen to go with my dress. 
 Ferdinand is so particular about colours, he wouldn't 
 hear of my wearing them ... I am going home 
 now, only I must speak to your mother first and 
 tell her what a good boy you are ! Where is 
 she?" 
 
 " Over there. By the way, I was rather put to 
 it last night. She wanted to know " 
 
 " Mothers do." 
 
 " I had not the least idea what version you would 
 wish me to give of our little Fourth of June 
 escapade." 
 
 "When in doubt, tell the truth!" said she 
 flippantly. 
 
 « But " 
 
 " But what ? There was nothing wrong about 
 it, was there ? " 
 
A HARD WOMAN tot 
 
 *' Do you mean I was to say that we lost Lady 
 Nugent in the Playing Fields, and took no par- 
 ticular trouble to find her, and dawdled up to 
 Windsor, and missed the train, and drove out to 
 Datchet, and dined there, and came back by a 
 later train " 
 
 " Not all that, silly boy ! No need to enter into 
 so many details. Well, let us hear what excuse 
 you did give your mother for our not turning up at 
 Paddington with the rest." 
 
 " Oh, I said you and Lady Nugent had got 
 parted from each other in the crowd at the match, 
 and that you had gone back to the Provost's to 
 see if she had waited there for you, and found she 
 hadn't, and then I escorted you to the station, and 
 found we were too late for the 5.50 train, and 
 caught one at 7.30 by the South-Western." 
 
 " Your mother has got an A B C, I suppose." 
 
 "She would not be such a cad to look it out 
 after I told her." 
 
 " Wouldn't she } " said Lydia incredulously. 
 "Well, you know her best ... I call that a very 
 lame story of yours — not comprehensive enough. 
 Too hard and fast ! A lie should be large and 
 adaptable, and allow a margin for alteration. It 
 should overlap ; you should not always have to be 
 lifting a corner here, and stretching a point there, 
 to make it fit. If you lie at all, lie boldly ; I 
 
102 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 detest half-measures, myself! . . . All right, I'll 
 stick to your story, although I could have invented 
 a far better one. Look here, I am sure these leaves 
 are making arabesques all over my forehead. Let 
 us move. Oughtn't you to go and talk to some of 
 these people ? " 
 
 " I'd rather talk to you." 
 
 " Of course you would. But how about me } 
 Introduce me to some nice man. No, I don't see 
 any nice man. I think I will go now . . ." 
 
 " You are rather unkind to me." 
 
 " Oh, you can come to us and dine. We've got 
 some dull people coming." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 103 
 
 SCENE X 
 
 " It was such a pity, Ferdinand," said Mrs. 
 Munday, a few days after, as she sat at lunch with 
 her husband, " that you sold the ' Lamia ' to old 
 Wigan." 
 
 " He sold it the other day to Sir George 
 Vyvyan." 
 
 " That is better. Now it will go to Glade, which 
 is a show house. I meant a pity because Mr. 
 V"erschoyle wanted it — he tells me so every time 
 he meets me. He would give a good price for it. 
 I fancy he's a little in love with Nevill." 
 
 '' Well ... he can have Nevill herself, perhaps," 
 said Munday, rather bitterly. 
 
 " You know that the silly child has got the idea 
 of going on the stage so thoroughly into her head 
 that she won't allow anything — not even marriage 
 — to interfere with it." 
 
 " The stage may be her true vocation after all." 
 
 " It's a woman's vocation to be married," said 
 Lydia. " Neither do I believe she can act . . . / 
 have never even invited her to recite to me ! I 
 
I04 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 am so afraid of being bored. But I always tell 
 her there isn't a chance of her getting on as an 
 actress — if it were only for practical reasons. She is 
 taller than half the actor-managers in London, so 
 they wouldn't venture to be seen with her on the 
 stage ; and she's prettier than the wives of the 
 other half — so what chance has she? . . . How- 
 ever — d propos of Mr. Verschoyle — he was wonder- 
 ing if you couldn't do another * Lamia ' for him — 
 smaller } " 
 
 " A replica t No, certainly not." 
 
 "Why not.?" 
 
 " Oh, because No, you would never under- 
 stand. Vyvyan would not like it." 
 
 " Why on earth should you consult him .-* " 
 
 "Look here, Lydia," said Munday gravely, "as 
 you choose to interest yourself in these matters, 
 you should try to look at them from the artist's 
 point of view. Don't you know that an artist 
 doesn't paint replicas — at any rate without asking 
 leave of the owner of the initial picture, and as I 
 know that in this case the owner would not 
 consent " 
 
 " I know that — but you might alter the detail a 
 little, mightn't you } — so as to evade " 
 
 Munday rose and went to the window. 
 
 " It will rain," he announced. " Are you going 
 out to-day 1 " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 105 
 
 " No, dear, I am going to sacrifice myself on the 
 altar of family affection. Fred came up from 
 Manchester yesterday, and he is coming to tea to- 
 day. He has not seen my house yet — or me — 
 since I married." 
 
 " Will your brother — will Fred stay to dinner ? " 
 
 " Don't look so frightened, Ferdinand ! No, I 
 shan't even ask him. He wouldn't go well with 
 the sideboard. Besides, Cossie is coming, and 
 Fred would be awfully out of it." 
 
 "Not more than I shall be." 
 
 " Oh, I know you and Cossie are not particularly 
 sbnpatico — but, after all, you meet on common 
 ground ; you are of the same world at least, where- 
 as my family — well, they have all the civic virtues, 
 no doubt, but neither you nor I have much to say 
 to them, have we ? I don't blame you, I feel it 
 myself. I have grown out of them. Even when I 
 lived in that world I was in it, not of it. They 
 jarred upon me ; their ways were not my ways. 
 I'm not like them a bit — any of them — now am I } 
 I'm not like mamma. I can't think how she 
 ever came to marry papa ! I'm sure I wouldn't 
 have." 
 
 " I never knew a daughter yet who would have 
 condescended to marry her own father ! " 
 
 " Very well, then ! Go along, dear, and paint 
 immortal works, and leave me to deal with old 
 
io6 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Fred. We understand each other. And he's head 
 of the family — since papa died." 
 
 * itt * * * 
 
 An hour later she walked into the drawing-room, 
 up to a tall young fellow who was standing with 
 his back to her, his legs well apart, attentively 
 contemplating an early Rossetti. He turned as 
 she came in, and waved his hand. 
 
 "Well, do you know, Lyd, I don't think much 
 of all this!" he remarked. 
 
 " ' Nobody asked you, sir, she said.' Sit down, 
 and don't scrape your muddy boots along my 
 carpet." 
 
 "Bide a wee, old girl, I must have a look round. 
 Remember this is the first time I've seen your 
 house, and you'll like to have my opinion ; I'm no 
 end of a judge. In Manchester v/e go in for art, 
 you know\" 
 
 "I thought you went in only for cotton." Fred 
 sniggered appreciatively. " You might take 7ne 
 first, and the house afterwards. You haven't seen 
 me since my marriage ! " 
 
 " Oh, you'll keep, Lyd. I know your little mug 
 well enough . . . Well, and this is your idea of 
 furnishing ? You're on the aesthetic lay, I see. 
 Majolica, old ivories, enamels, Pallisser " 
 
 " Palissy, please." 
 
 " Oh, call it what you like ! But you know, Lyd, 
 
A HARD WOMAN 107 
 
 there is no money now in this old mediaeval 
 rubbish. As a sensible woman, who has been 
 brought up to know the meaning of ' cash down,' 
 you ought to know better than to lumber up 
 your house with things that are going down in 
 the market." 
 
 "You must remember," she said pedantically, 
 "all these old things have their artistic interest and 
 value in an artist's eyes." 
 
 *' Ah, but will these artists of yours back their 
 opinion with their money ? Not they ! Can they 
 go and bid for a picture or a bronze against a 
 Manchester mill-owner or a Liverpool cotton- 
 broker.? Devil a bit!" 
 
 " Oh, Fred, hush ! these are awful things to say 
 in an artist's house — though I must say I do 
 think " 
 
 " That money's the only real test } You wouldn't 
 be your father's daughter, Lyd, if you didn't. Poor 
 old pater! Now, look at this old bit of majolica 
 with the crack across it, and the Madonna out of 
 all possible drawing " 
 
 " Heavens, Fred ! Gubbio ruby lustre ware of 
 the best period, and signed by the master! What 
 would Ferdinand say?" 
 
 "I don't care what Ferdinand would say; I 
 know what old Cohen would say, or Matthew Levi, 
 or Jack Roberts, all fellows rolling in money. 
 
io8 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 They'd say it wasn't a convertible asset — that 
 you couldn't get a five-pound note on it if you 
 walked up and down Bond Street with it in your 
 hand." 
 
 " Not a negotiable security, eh ? " said she, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Just so, Lyd — so take my advice and buy 
 things that are — modern things, you know ! Paris 
 bronzes, and pictures by rising men, or good half- 
 modern things, Sevres and Dresden " 
 
 " I see — what Ferdinand calls pretty crockery ! " 
 
 " Take my word for it, Sevres and Dresden are 
 rising stock. You just invest in it, Lyd, if you 
 have a chance and can back your own judgment. 
 I declare I could teach your husband a thing or 
 two. The fact is we go one better in art, down 
 Manchester way, than you do here in London." 
 
 " Do you, now ? If there is a thing Ferdinand 
 knows about, it's about china and furniture, and 
 old masters " 
 
 "There, there, old girl, don't get your feathers 
 up ! I declare it's quite pretty to see it defending 
 its little new husband's taste ! . . . Let's drop all 
 this rot. I'm sure it's nothing to me if you like 
 to live in an old curiosity shop . . . I've lots of 
 messages for you from them at home. By the 
 way, aren't you neglecting them rather.-* That's 
 not good biz : mother seems kind of mopey since 
 
A HARD WOMAN 109 
 
 father's death, and Lucy says you're a very bad 
 sister." 
 
 " I'm cross with Lucy. She's so obstinate." 
 " Oh, about Woffle ! Well, I'll tell you— Lucy 
 doesn't take any stock in Woffle — he's too rational 
 for her. It's my opinion she's dying to make a 
 fool of herself, same as you've done." 
 
 " Well, Fred dear, you never had much manners, 
 
 but since you've been to Manchester " 
 
 " Let my manners alone," said he good-humour- 
 edly. " I believe Lucy's got a writer chap in her 
 
 eye " 
 
 " Who, I wonder t " 
 
 " That man you had a try for — what's his name } 
 — St. Jerome." 
 
 " Oh, William St. Jerome ! I considered him, 
 that's all. He didn't do. He makes a very good 
 friend, and would have made a very bad husband. 
 I like him better as he is." 
 " But how about Lucy t " 
 
 " He'll never propose to Lucy. You must dis- 
 abuse her of him. He is one of the men who will 
 never marry for my sake." 
 
 " Did he propose, then ? " said Fred, looking 
 arch. " I always understood that you never had 
 any offers at all before Ferdinand proposed to 
 you." 
 
no A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " I never/' said his sister, with dignity, " allowed 
 any man to actually propose to me. I always 
 stopped them before they came to the point." 
 
 " Very clever of you, dear. Some girls can't . . . 
 Yes, you're a clever woman, Lydia. I can always 
 talk to you. I came to talk to you to-day. By 
 the way, let me tell you something to your dis- 
 advantage — if you don't come to see Aunt Elspeth 
 oftener she will be cutting you out of her will, 
 and then, where will you be } " 
 
 " I suppose I must go oftener," said Lydia. 
 " But her room is so stuffy, and, for the sake of a 
 few beggarly thousands, which I suppose is all it 
 amounts to " 
 
 " There's no knowing ! The old woman's very 
 secretive . . . ! Say, Lydia, who bosses this show — 
 the money, I mean ? " 
 
 " I do — more or less." 
 
 " Rather more than less, I fancy, if I know my 
 sweet little sister at all. Well, listen ; if you really 
 have a free hand, I can put you up to something 
 good." 
 
 " Can you, Fred dear } Well, go ahead ! " 
 
 ''Well, it's like this " 
 
 " Oh, Fred, don't say it's like this — only the 
 most awful people say that — models and Bo- 
 hemians " 
 
A HARD WOMAN in 
 
 " All serene ! I see you don't want any help from 
 me. Good-bye ! Here, where's my hat and stick ? " 
 
 " Don't be a cross idiot, Fred, but tell me about 
 this good thing, do." 
 
 " I couldn't think of instructing such a superior 
 young woman ! " 
 
 " You know, Fred, you always had the best head 
 for figures in the family." 
 
 " Rot ! " 
 
 " And you really know a lot about art." 
 
 " Footle ! " 
 
 " Well, about Sevres and Dresden you do." 
 
 " I say, Lyd, did I ever tell you about that old 
 Sevres bowl I gave a cool thou, for } " 
 
 " Oh, Fred dear, how rash ! " 
 
 "But I sold it for twelve-fifty next day to old 
 Mat Levi of Manchester 'Change. That was good 
 enough, wasn't it ? " 
 
 "What, to a Jew, too.? Well, you are clever! 
 Now tell me about this good thing." 
 
 "Well, you see . . . it's a sort of syndicate 
 we're in." 
 
 "Who's in.?" 
 
 " I am, for one. I went five thou, with five 
 other Manchester chaps. Cohen has signed for 
 thirty thousand, Philipps for five, Sam Mendoza 
 for ten. Jack Roberts, Lewis, and Matthew Levi 
 make up the balance, or nearly the balance." 
 
112 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " What's the whole figure ? " 
 
 " By Jove, Lyd, you're as keen as a penknife ! 
 Well, the whole tots up to just a hundred 
 thousand." 
 
 " Warm men ? " 
 
 " Every one of 'em. Cohen's a millionaire, owns 
 fifty thousand tons of shipping, two cotton-mills, 
 and ten acres of Liverpool docks. Mendoza is a 
 strongish man, and the balance have cut their eye- 
 teeth, you bet." 
 
 Her eyes sparkled. " Really, Fred ! Go on. 
 Tell me more. Any London men in your little 
 lot .? " 
 
 " Not good enough ; we keep our good things to 
 ourselves. Besides, you London people are too 
 slow and slack for us — we Manchester fellows are 
 just Yankees with a fresh edge on." 
 
 " And this is a gilt-edged thing, is it } " 
 
 " Gilt-edged ! Why, Lyd, you seem to have 
 picked up a trifle of shop talk yourself." 
 
 "From you, dear Fred, but I hate it. So this 
 really is a good thing, is it } " 
 
 "You'll be on velvet." 
 
 " I shall, shall I .? How do you make that 
 out > " 
 
 " Well, if you come in, you will." 
 
 ** Oh, so you want me to come in, do you ? " 
 
 " Oh 'no," I don't ; you may stand out in 
 
A HARD WOMAN 113 
 
 the cold if you like and see us pile up the 
 stamps." 
 
 "Well, let's hear more about it. What are 
 you syndicating about.? — though it doesn't much 
 matter, does it } " 
 
 " Of course it doesn't, as we shan't stay in a 
 moment after the scrip is taken up — oh, well, you 
 won't understand — after the public come in at the 
 premium we want." 
 
 " It's a company then .?" 
 
 " Of course. The syndicate is to buy a con- 
 cession. Then we start a company. See ? " 
 
 " Mines .? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Silver ? " 
 
 "No — we're not idiots — gold, of course. No 
 other metal goes down at present. The richest 
 reef in West Australia — the first prospectors built 
 their oven up with gold-bearing quartz, and swore 
 fearfully when the fire got hot and the gold ran 
 out and spoilt their damper — the most picturesque 
 lie in all the diggings " 
 
 " When is the company to be formed } " 
 
 " The day after to-morrow, and we can let you 
 have ten thousand before twelve to-morrow. After 
 that it will be too late." 
 
 "If it's such a good thing, why don't you keep 
 it to yourself.?" 
 
114 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "Well, you see, contango rates were too stiff 
 for me this turn. I can't run to more than five 
 thousand." 
 
 " I wish you'd explain it all a little more. It's 
 rather a leap in the dark, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Well, you must take it or leave it ! It is a real 
 good thing, I tell you, and if I can't keep it all 
 myself I want it to be in the family. You'll have 
 fully paid-up shares allotted to you, and you'll be 
 able to unload at a premium in a month or so." 
 
 " I suppose I ought to ask my husband first." 
 
 " Oh yes, do, if you like. But what can a crank 
 of an artist know of business ? " 
 
 " Manchester manners again ! " 
 
 "Oh, rot! Business is business, and I'm not 
 going to pick my words for you. Well, tell him if 
 you like, but I should advise you not to tell him 
 too much. Just get him to say ' Yes ' somehow, 
 and you won't regret it, Lyd. By Jove, if he were 
 to have the cheek to want to control you in the 
 management of your own money! — it's what he 
 married you for, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Well, and if he married me for my money, I 
 married him for his position, and all that," she 
 cried angrily. Then, softening down, " You must 
 never say that, Fred, or think it ... If you like, 
 you may look upon our marriage as a purely 
 business arrangement — money on my side, posi- 
 
A HARD WOMAN 115 
 
 tion on his. I was sick of Bedford Square and 
 everything in it. My life there was hateful to me. 
 It didn't suit me at all. I was born for something 
 different. I had everything I wanted, except what 
 Ferdinand could give me — the life I lead now, the 
 people I know, the society I like, and the prestige 
 of his reputation. You have no idea how highly 
 he is thought of " 
 
 " Listen to her ' booming ' her own husband ! " 
 sneered Fred. 
 
 " I w^ant to make you see I have got what I 
 bargained for ! " 
 
 " Ah, and has he .? " said Fred meaningly. 
 
 " What do you mean by that, now ? " 
 
 "Well, in such a marriage as you say yours is, 
 I'm blest if I see where the love comes in ! " 
 
 " You needn't see," she said dryly. " Look here, 
 don't let's argue any more about things you don't 
 understand. Explain to me what you want." 
 
 " Good Lord ! it isn't what / want ! It's for you 
 — for your advantage," he exclaimed. 
 
 " Very well, write those figures you told me on a 
 bit of paper " 
 
 '* For you to show to your husband ? " 
 
 " I'll think about that. Isn't there a pros- 
 pectus or something ? Hand it over. I'll let you 
 know by the first post to-morrow ... I say,'* 
 looking at the clock, " we dine at eight. Good-bye, 
 
ii6 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 old boy, look me up again soon. Here — this way ! 
 Give my love to mother. Here's your stick — 
 good-bye." 
 
 "You'll thank me some day for having made 
 your fortune," he cried, as she literally put him out 
 of the house. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 117 
 
 SCENE XI 
 
 Scene. — Mrs. Munday's room. Her maid 
 Celeste is sitting up zvith a jiovely yawnijig. 
 Mrs. Munday enters, flinging off her cloak with 
 a gesture of relief. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You can go to bed, Celeste. 
 I don't want you. Good-night ! . . . Silly girl, 
 couldn't you wait to rub your eyes till you are out 
 of the room 1 {Sitting down in front of the glass 
 and looking at herself intently^ I am sure nobody 
 would think I had been out to dinner every night 
 for the last fortnight ! And I was a success to-night 
 — as usual ! I wouldn't care to go out unless I was. 
 A woman may just as well give up the game when 
 once she sees she can't make the other women 
 jealous any longer. Madame Recamier said that, I 
 believe. Well, I needn't give it up at present, so far 
 as I can see . . . Yet, I am not a beautiful woman — 
 hardly a pretty woman — almost a plain one some- 
 times. But what of that — no one knows it but 
 
ii8 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 me. I manage so well. I have had my portrait 
 in four society papers as a beauty since I married. 
 That's pretty good for a plain woman ! . . . I 
 have a really good complexion — no wonder — I 
 never eat sweets or anything nice ! I sacrifice all 
 that ! But it is quite worth while. I don't need 
 to wear powder like the other poor wretches, who 
 go to parties with puffs in their pockets. How I 
 despise them ! . . . My nose is rather insignificant, 
 but it is far less hampering than an admittedly fine 
 nose like May Bowen's, that you can't escape from. 
 Now my nice ordinary nose does not commit me 
 to any particular style of coiffiire . . . My mouth 
 — well, as I am always talking, nobody knows 
 what it is like when it's shut. I haven't much 
 colour — all the better ! — I can wear any shade I 
 like . . . Nevill France is a beauty — oh, I don't 
 deny it ! — but she does not make her effect — except 
 among artists. She has to be put in a picture 
 before she looks right, somehow . . . No, I 
 wouldn't change myself if I could. There's some- 
 thing better than beauty, and that is charm. I 
 may not be beautiful — no, I suppose I'm not — but 
 I am something better — I am fascinating ! 
 
 MuNDAY {entering behind her). Who is fascin- 
 ating } You } Yes, you are. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {rather angrily). I do wish you 
 wouldn't come creeping into the room like that ! 
 
A HARD WOMAN 119 
 
 You walk like one of your own cats . . . No, I 
 didn't mean me ! 
 
 MuNDAY. Who, then ? Me ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I was merely remarking, dear, 
 that good-looking as you were, you were singularly 
 lacking in fascination. 
 
 Munday. I leave that to you. Mine are the 
 every-day looks that cheer and not inebriate . . . 
 You looked awfully pretty to-night ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Ah, but my good looks were 
 quite thrown away. Did you ever know such dull 
 people } Friends of yours ; I am not responsible 
 for them. We must drop them, quietly — they're 
 impossible ! And they always give me the stupidest 
 man of the lot to go in to dinner with, because 
 they know I don't choose to lose my reputation for 
 being good company. I am supposed to be able 
 to make a broom-stick talk, as Swift said. 
 
 Munday. Ah, did he.? Really, Lydia, for a 
 clever woman, you get hold of the wrong ends of 
 sticks oftener than any one I know. It's a broom- 
 stick this time. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Really, Ferdinand, you artists 
 are too awfully ignorant of English literature — 
 allusions to it are quite lost upon you ! Don't you 
 know that Dean Swift 
 
 Munday {Jiastily). I apologize. You are right, 
 of course. But let us be civil to the Seymours, if 
 
I20 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 you don't mind. They are the oldest friends I 
 have. Lady Seymour is a very good soul. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {wearily). Oh yes, she's quite 
 a good woman. She wears the same bonnet for 
 two seasons. Virtue unadorned bores me. A 
 frump is the witch of these days, and should not 
 be suffered to live. 
 
 Monday. Dear Lydia, everybody isn't like 
 you ! And you want a sort of dull background for 
 your brilliancy. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Dear Ferdinand, sometimes 
 you put things really well. You have a great gift 
 of expression ... Sit down there, while I tell 
 you something. I don't often consult you, but you 
 are so sweet to-night, I must . . . Listen ! . . . 
 (She sits on the arm of his chair.) Fred was here 
 this afternoon 
 
 Munday. I know. I smelt his kind of cigar. 
 Its not too subtle aroma rose to the studio and 
 mingled with my finer fancies. Nevill 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, was Nevill there? She's 
 so quiet, I never know when she is there or not. 
 . . . Yes, Fred smoked all the time — he can 
 always talk better when he is smoking — and he 
 really had something important to tell me . . . 
 Lean forward a minute, your shoulder is hurting 
 my wrist ! Well, Fred wants 
 
 Munday. What does Fred want .? Me to 
 
A HARD WOMAN 121 
 
 paint his portrait ? Til do it for love, to please 
 you. Can I say more ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Do you suppose that boy could 
 sit still for half-an-hour ? He is simply bursting 
 with energy. Besides, he would never go to an 
 idealist like you for his portrait. He would want 
 to go to a strong painter, with lots of " devil " 
 
 Munday. And shadows as black as my hat, 
 and a background that knocks you out of time. 
 Well, I can survive the affront. What does Fred 
 want } Business } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes, it*s business. Very good 
 business ! 
 
 Munday. Ah, that means he wants to " un- 
 load." 
 
 Mrs. Munday (a pause). Why, Ferdinand 
 
 Munday {laughi7ig). You didn't think I knew 
 so much about it } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I wonder if you know what 
 " unload " means } 
 
 Munday. Not in the least. Tell me, why 
 does Fred want to unload 1 
 
 Mrs. Munday. But he doesn't ; he doesn't ! 
 It was you who said he did. 
 
 Munday. How stupid of me ! Tell me about 
 this good thing of his. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {after a moment's hesitation). I 
 
122 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 know, Ferdinand, you are very ignorant about City 
 matters, but even yoii must know what a syndi- 
 cate is. 
 
 MUNDAY. Even I ! It's a lot of fellows putting 
 their money together to do some one else out of 
 his, isn't it ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, if you arc going to waste 
 your time and mine in making epigrams 
 
 MUNDAY. Well, what is a syndicate if it isn't 
 that } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. It is a pool subscribed to by a 
 number of financiers who trust each other, to carry 
 out some great financial operation. 
 
 Munday. I see, and Fred wants us to be 
 one of these financiers who trust each other ! 
 Why, I wouldn't trust one of them with a single 
 spoon ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. That shows, dear Ferdinand, 
 that you're little better than one yourself. 
 
 Munday {laugJiing). Good, but I thought we 
 weren't to waste our time making epigrams. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. That was not an epigram : it 
 was a holy truth. And really, Ferdinand, if one 
 can't trust one's own brother, who can one trust .-* 
 Fred's a great rough clumsy creature, but, at any 
 rate, he's honest. It's the virtue of his defects. 
 And he's got arc extraordinary good head for 
 
A HARD WOMAN 123 
 
 finance ; his things are bound to go. Besides, it 
 isn't your money he wants ; it's mine. 
 
 Monday. I thought yours was mine and mine 
 yours } 
 
 Mrs. Monday. Dear, old-fashioned thing! 
 Yours is mine, of course, and mine is my own, by 
 the terms of my father's will. 
 
 Monday {drily). I see. Do you carry a copy 
 of it in your pocket } 
 
 Mrs. Monday. Don't be cross, dear, but do 
 try to understand ... I don't want to spend any 
 money, I only mean to transfer some of what is 
 standing in my name — in Indian Fours, you know 
 — into shares in this syndicate, and I was going to 
 explain it all to you, but you get so cross ! 
 
 Monday. It needs no explanation to tell me 
 that 
 
 Mrs. Monday. Then I shan't explain, but just 
 doit. 
 
 Monday. I refuse 
 
 Mrs. Monday {softly). Dear, you have no right 
 to refuse. 
 
 Monday {hotly). We'll see about that! I'm 
 not going to let you play ducks and drakes 
 with 
 
 Mrs. Monday. I know about these things, 
 and you don't, apparently. This is simply foolish 
 
124 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 obstinacy and tyranny on your part. I must do as 
 I think best ... I wish I hadn't told you. 
 
 MUNDAY. You couldn't have gone into such a 
 thing without telling me, and I won't be a party 
 to 
 
 Mrs. Monday. Look here, Ferdinand, is it 
 my money or is it yours ? When I married you, 
 you were 
 
 MUNDAY {rising- and going to the other end of the 
 room). A pauper, a pauper with prospects, and 
 you were an heiress ! I am sorry you make me 
 remember it. I did not marry you for that, I 
 married you for yourself — because I — ^hang it 
 all ! ... I said to myself, I won't live on my 
 wife — I won't have it said that I married her for 
 her money. I'll work as if she were penniless and 
 I had to keep her — and I have ! I've worked like 
 a dog and done things I hated — painted portraits, 
 hurried things — I've very nearly not been an 
 artist for your sake, and now you reproach me ! 
 Damn it all ! Take this money of yours and throw 
 it out of the window, into the sea if you like, only 
 never, while you live, say a word about it to me 
 again. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {pale). Don't be cross, dear. 
 
 MUNDAY. Cross ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. In a rage then! I am glad 
 
A HARD WOMAN 125 
 
 we understand each other. {Slowly) You don't 
 object, then, to my employing my own money in 
 what I think a judicious enterprise ? 
 
 MUNDAY (Jiotly). Not in the least ! Employ it, 
 spend it, go into your syndicate, trust your finan- 
 ciers, confide in Fred, anything you please, only 
 never mention it to me again — and when you're 
 beggared, come to me and we'll live on what I can 
 make. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {kissing him). No chance of 
 that, dear ! {rising lightly from the arm of the chair). 
 Oh, and, Ferdinand, I wanted to ask you if 
 
 MuNDAY. Please don't ask me for my advice 
 on any subject whatever. Good-night. {Going) 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I wasn't going to ask you for 
 your advice. I was going to advise you about 
 something that really ought to be settled quickly. 
 
 Munday. What.^ 
 
 Mrs. Munday. That replica 
 
 Munday. What replica } I don't know what 
 you are talking about. I told you I didn't paint 
 replicas. I'm very tired — let me go ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You called it a replica, I didn't. 
 I mean the "Lamia" for Mr. Verschoyle — he 
 wanted you to do another for him. I told you 
 about it this morning. 
 
 Munday {icily). If you please, Lydia, I am 
 leaving you the entire control of what you consider 
 
126 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 your own affairs, will you kindly permit me to 
 manage what are certainly my own ? I am, I 
 believe, competent. Good-night. [Exit.] 
 
 Mrs. Munday (pejisively). He seems cross ! 
 He almost banged the door ... I wish I hadn't 
 told him. Of course he got it all wrong. (Begin- 
 ning to uftdo her hair.) This is the first time he 
 ever left me like that ! . . . Well, I suppose it is 
 a quarrel . . . the first quarrel ! . . . Oh, rub- 
 bish ! ... I suppose he doesn't expect me to 
 make a scene and have hysterics out loud till he 
 comes back to forgive me, or go and hammer at 
 his door until he opens it t I shall just go to bed 
 quietly. Silly old Ferdinand ! He will be all 
 right to-morrow. {Winding up her watch') One 
 o'clock ! . . . Good heavens ! I was forgetting I 
 promised to let Fred know by the first post to- 
 morrow morning. How lucky I thought of it ! 
 {Sittifig down to her escritoire.) " Dear Fred, go 
 ahead ! — I'm on. Cheque follows. Lydia." There ! 
 Short and sweet ! . . . I wasn't going to miss a 
 good thing like that ! Not I ! Ferdinand's a 
 dear, but I'd back Fred against him in a matter 
 of business any day! I've studied his old pros- 
 pectus, and the thing seems all square. It promises 
 a tremendous lot. I dare say half is true . . . Now 
 I must slip out and post this. I hope Ferdinand's 
 asleep. He mustn't hear me go out or he'll offer 
 
A HARD WOMAN 127 
 
 to post it for me — such is his politeness ! That 
 would be playing it rather low down on him, when 
 he hates the idea so ! {Puts on a cloak ayid a lace 
 scarf over her head?) I look just as if I were going 
 to elope in this get-up ! I never shall, though. 
 Pas si bete ! 
 
128 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XII 
 
 The setting sun shone into Ferdinand Monday's 
 studio in long slant yellow rays. Three different 
 clocks chimed one after another, not discordantly. 
 The artist dropped his sheaf of brushes into a deep 
 vase with a clash and drew a long breath. " There, 
 that will do for to-day ! " he said. 
 
 The Persian cat, the tabby cat, and the black 
 cat sat up and blinked. Munday's model came 
 down from her estrade^ put on her hat, and began 
 to arrange her veil in front of a dusky old Italian 
 mirror that hung near the door. 
 
 " Shall I help you ? " he asked. " That's not 
 much of a glass." 
 
 "You couldn't!" she replied, with feminine 
 contempt, adroitly disposing of coils of net under 
 her chin and over her face, while the artist turned 
 on his sliding chair and watched her. 
 
 " A very good pose ! " said he. 
 
 Nevill let her hands drop to her sides. " I am 
 not posing," she said, " I am only putting my 
 veil on." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 129 
 
 " Why should you be vexed because I say your 
 attitudes are good ? I ought to know." , 
 
 *' I am not vexed. I am glad. All the better 
 for the stage." 
 
 "You are still thinking of that.?" he asked 
 absently. 
 
 "Of course I do. I always do. I think of 
 nothing else — poor stage-struck fool that I am ! 
 It is before me always, like a mirage — and just as 
 deceptive, very likely. Lydia always discourages 
 me." 
 
 " She doesn't know what you can do. No more 
 do I. You have never condescended to recite 
 to us." 
 
 " Because I am shy," said Nevill brusquely. 
 
 " Shy ! An actress ! " 
 
 " Oh, not of professionals ! The other day 
 Marischal made me recite to him on the stage of 
 ' The Piccadilly ' — all by myself — in that odd day- 
 light kind of dusk, you know — all the stalls covered 
 with sheeting, like ghosts of an audience — a very 
 cold unsympathetic audience, but perhaps not 
 colder than the real ones sometimes ! — and he 
 went round and sat in the front of the house to 
 see if I could speak loud enough." 
 
 "And could you.?" 
 
 "Yes. I forgot all about him, and every- 
 body. I let myself go." 
 
I30 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 *• What did Marischal say ?" 
 
 "He said the usual thing — that I must wait — 
 profession overstocked — would take me on in a 
 moment if " 
 
 " If there wasn't a Mrs. Marischal ? *' 
 
 " I suppose so," she said wearily. "It is all very 
 far off and hopeless. One may have everything, I 
 see, even talent, but if one hasn't interest — I Oh, 
 I must go. I have four thousand words to type 
 and send off by the last post." 
 
 " And who posts them for you "> " he asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 "I post them myself. The pillar-box is not 
 more than a hundred yards away. You should 
 see me run by like a flash, just about midnight, 
 and the policeman at the corner turn his bull's-eye 
 on me." 
 
 " Oh, there is a policeman ! " he said, relieved. 
 
 " I should think there was — in a neighbourhood 
 like ours ! Why, there is a drunken row every 
 night almost, and some one turned out of the 
 public-house next door. Last night Mrs. Lennox, 
 at number ten, talked — or swore — all night. The 
 place is so badly built that it sounds as if the 
 voices were in the same room with one. Mrs. 
 Mulligan is always half throwing herself out of 
 the window, and being fished back again. Then 
 the night before, Mrs. Grote — that's the watch- 
 
A HARD WOMAN 131 
 
 maker's wife under me — had gone to sleep, and 
 wouldn't wake to unlock the door for her husband, 
 and he nearly battered a panel in. It is impossible 
 to sleep after six, for everybody gets up so early. 
 * Oh, it's lively up our way,' as the song says. 
 Now I am going!" She put away the brindled 
 cat, which she was holding in her arms, and held 
 out her hand. 
 
 " I am going to walk home with you." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why No .? " 
 
 "Yes— then." 
 
 He took a last look at the picture on the easel, 
 and then covered it with a bit of drapery. Her 
 eyes followed him wistfully, but she said nothing. 
 
 "You are very good," said Munday, "not to 
 tease me to let you see yourself — most women 
 would ! " 
 
 " I know you would hate it." 
 
 " Yes, you understand — you are an artist your- 
 self. You know that, to an artist, an unfinished 
 work, once shown, is of no more value. The bloom 
 is off — one hates the sight of it — it is like pulling 
 up a thing by the roots to see if it is growing. It 
 never grows — that's all ! " 
 
 Nevill knew what was in his mind. The day 
 before, Mrs. Munday, accompanied by three fashion- 
 able friends, had made an inroad o* the studio in 
 
132 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 his absence, and had given them the opportunity 
 of an early view of some of the " pictures of the 
 year." They had left unmistakable traces of their 
 presence. Women never have patience to put 
 things back exactly as they find them. 
 
 Munday and Nevill went down the broad oak 
 staircase together. The walls were hung in places 
 with good old tapestry, and studded with the dull 
 gold of Cinquecento frames and mirrors. There 
 were rare engravings, of the German and Dutch 
 masters, and modern etchings adorned with the 
 autograph signatures of famous foreign artists — 
 "A mon ami Ferdinand Munday." Odds and 
 ends of statuary — bronzes — all of a certain value, 
 stood about. Munday was a collector in his way. 
 The whole effect was rich and sombre. 
 
 " I suppose this is what you call a show house ? " 
 said Nevill, a little scornfully. 
 
 " Oh yes, it's quite the correct thing in artists' 
 houses, I believe." 
 
 " And are you what is called a society artist } " 
 
 " Not yet — but my wife is trying hard to make 
 me one." 
 
 " Don't let her ! " 
 
 "It is impossible to do both," said Munday 
 bitterly. " Society first ruins art, and then patro- 
 nizes it, and it takes a red-brick house to make 
 imaginative pictures go down. Come along ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 133 
 
 " When I think of my staircase, that I pay six- 
 pence a week for sweeping down and lighting ! 
 It has stone steps, and tile-brick walls, and its 
 only decorations are cans of milk and empty coal- 
 scuttles. It is as hard as the world. What are 
 you looking at ? " 
 
 " I am looking to see where we are dining 
 to-night. My wife generally writes it down on this 
 slate for me." 
 
 " Do you dine out every night t " 
 
 "Very nearly." 
 
 " Do you like it ? " 
 
 " Like it ? . . . Oh, well, I like it when once I'm 
 there ! But it is not good for one's art ; the hot 
 rooms hurt one's eyes, and it is very hard to get 
 up in the morning." 
 
 "Then why do you do it }'' she said impatiently. 
 
 " Why do I get up t Because I have to work." 
 
 " Go out so much, I mean, if you don't care 
 for it } " 
 
 " My wife does." 
 
 " Then let her go out if she likes it." 
 
 " My dear little Bohemian, don't you know that 
 husband and wife are supposed to dine out to- 
 gether } It's about the one thing they do do 
 together in this odd society world." 
 
 " Artists should not go into society at all ! " said 
 she dogmatically. " It is demoralizing." 
 
134 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " I don't agree with you there. Because a man 
 is an artist, there's no need for him to be a bear." 
 
 The door closed behind them, and they went 
 out into the street. Nevill seemed inclined to 
 continue the subject. " Society is so unreal," she 
 said. 
 
 " Don't be so conventional ! " She stared, he 
 laughed. " Bohemia has its conventions too, and 
 that assumption is one of them. But I assure 
 you, you'll find as much human nature in a ball- 
 room as on a sanded floor, and a good deal more 
 complexity." 
 
 " I dare say," said she ; " but still, it's all too 
 artificial for me. I am not good at posing and 
 finessing, and diplomatizing, and hiding my feel- 
 ings, and getting my own way without seeming to, 
 and defying Mrs. Grundy while I appear to bow 
 to her. Lydia is so good at it. She picks her 
 way about among conventions as if they were 
 eggs, without breaking any of them." 
 
 " The art is soon learnt," said Munday ; *' women 
 are so clever." 
 
 " I am not clever then. I often feel as if I were 
 two different persons, in two different worlds — my 
 own rough-and-ready knockabout world, and your 
 soft gentle one, where I have to pretend to be 
 delicate and helpless, and useless. It is such a 
 change. I leave this dreary slum of mine to come 
 
A HARD WOMAN 135 
 
 to you ; I go to parties with you and Lydia, and 
 it's all gay, and flippant, and electric-lighted — and 
 then, like Cinderella, I hear the clock strike, and I 
 get into my pumpkin — the omnibus — and I come 
 back here and stumble up the dark stairs, and 
 fumble with my latch-key, and let myself in, and 
 there is no fire, no light, no nothing, nobody to 
 say good-night to . . ." Her voice fell. 
 
 " It sounds very lonely." 
 
 "And in the morning 1 get up, and there is 
 nobody to say good-morning to, and I light the 
 fire, and I boil a kettle and make some tea, 
 and drink it at the corner of the kitchen table, 
 and eat a slice of stale bread and forget to butter 
 it " 
 
 " Is that all your breakfast .? " 
 
 "It isn't worth while to cook elaborate things 
 for oneself." 
 
 " Now I see why professional independent 
 women are always so thin ! Why don't you get 
 a friend to come and live with you } " 
 
 " Chum up with a girl, you mean .? " said Nevill, 
 in the soft, penetrating, suasive tones that seemed 
 to neutralize and even dignify her slang and her 
 directness. " I should quarrel with her in a week. 
 I hate women." 
 
 " Then I see nothing for it but " 
 
 "But what.?" 
 
136 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "A husband." 
 
 " Oh, how tiresome of you to say that ! Just 
 like the others." 
 
 " Who are the others ? — my wife } " 
 
 " Yes. Lydia thinks, you know, that a woman's 
 life is an utter failure if she isn't married. Because 
 she's happy herself is no reason ... I wish — I 
 wisk she would leave me alone about Mr. 
 Verschoyle." 
 
 "I suppose I ought to speak for poor Ver- 
 schoyle," said Monday. " He is my friend — 
 but " 
 
 " But he is so dull, and good, and commonplace ! 
 Dear Mr. Munday, you can't conscientiously re- 
 commend him to a wild woman like me, now 
 can you ? " 
 
 " You would at any rate have some one to say 
 good-night and good-morning to." 
 
 " I might have a parrot, if that's all." 
 
 "You would find a parrot even more trouble- 
 some than a husband. It always pecks, and wants 
 its head stroked occasionally." 
 
 " I never mean to have either," said Nevill 
 decidedly. " I have argued it out with Lydia 
 scores of times. I am already twenty-four ; I am 
 used to living alone, and having my own way. It's 
 not much of a way, but I've always had it. Besides, 
 I am not nice enough. I'm far too much of a 
 
A HARD WOMAN 
 
 137 
 
 Bohemian to marry any one in your world, and 
 I could not marry any one in my own ! " 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " I like men to be gentlemen." 
 
 " Well, there is your editor ! Is he not charming ? " 
 
 " I hope you don't believe I would have the bad 
 form to flirt with my editor! He looks upon 
 me as a machine, I am happy to say — nothing 
 more." 
 
 " But there are nice men in the world who don't 
 by any means regard you as a machine, and who 
 would marry you to-morrow, if you were to so 
 much as droop your little eyelid in their direction. 
 I know it. They come and confide in me — as a 
 sort of guardian and well-wisher of yours. Yes, I 
 see it all. You will choose one of them, and go 
 away, and be a great lady, and be too proud to sit 
 for me any more. I shall grin and bear it, and 
 give you your own portrait as a wedding present." 
 
 " I shall always be ready to sit for you whenever 
 you want me," she said earnestly. "Always. You 
 will have only to call me and I'll come, whatever I 
 am doing — wherever I am — out of my grave even." 
 
 " I don't think I am equal to painting a ghost," 
 he replied lightly. " I had rather you came, in 
 flesh and blood, from your husband's house, happy 
 and gay, and with a little half-hour to spare to an old 
 friend ... I only want you to be happy, you know." 
 
138 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Happy in marriage, do you mean ? " 
 
 " Women are happier married, I suppose." 
 
 " Are they ? I am not sure ! Anyhow, we can't 
 all marry. That's just it," she said vehemently. 
 " There are not husbands enough to go round — 
 statistics prove it. Then why can't a certain num- 
 ber of women be allowed to stand out, and not be 
 despised, because they have chosen that line, and 
 mean to abide by it } " 
 
 " Ail that was possible, in fact," said Munday. 
 " Yes, I see it coming ! . . . A new order of Ves- 
 tals, bound under penalty of social death never to 
 bind themselves in marriagCc Free lances ! What 
 a good time they would have, to be sure ! " 
 
 " How do you mean } " 
 
 He laughed. "They would have entered into 
 no obligation not to flirt ! " 
 
 " You will insist on treating it all as a joke, but 
 I don't see why there should not be some associ- 
 ation of the sort. Professional women, who have 
 their work, who don't want to incur obligations, to 
 make bonds " 
 
 " I know ! I know ! All this anti-hymeneal 
 fervour," said Munday, " would go down, like the 
 Arab tents, in a single night, the moment you 
 happened to fall in love." 
 
 *' Marriage is sometimes the grave of love ! " 
 
 " It has been said." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 139 
 
 " Oh, I dare say it is a commonplace ; but I mean 
 that, to me, love bound by a promise is no longer 
 love, but a bargain — entered into quite honestly, 
 by two honest people — but still, a bargain. To 
 promise to be true. How can any one ? True in 
 deed, one can be, I suppose ; but in thought, im- 
 possible ! Thought is free. To cease to wish to 
 be constant, is to be inconstant." 
 
 " All lovers' promises are, of course, entirely 
 founded on ^ the doctrine of probabilities," said 
 Munday. '* A. cannot promise to love B. for ever, 
 it is true ; but he has calculated the chances, and 
 he thinks that, all things considered, it is more 
 likely that he should do so than the reverse. And 
 then he promises ! " 
 
 "On the off chance! How dreadful! If I had 
 once given my word, at the altar or the registry 
 office, I should keep it — a promise is a promise. 
 But I will never give it. I should be afraid." 
 
 " You say that, but, all the same, if you ever 
 really cared for any one, you would not find the 
 prospect of eternal fidelity impossible." 
 
 She answered passionately. " Oh, if I really 
 ever cared for any man, I dare say I should be glad 
 to make a fool of myself every way I could, like 
 other women. I could affront even the horrors of 
 domesticity for his sake — or any other horror . . . 
 Oh yes, between two real lovers the mere marriage 
 
I40 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 bond would be a trifle, a harmless necessary detail 
 — like ordering a visiting card, or paying a call — a 
 concession to society, a formality to be entered 
 into, or neglected, if need were . . . Am I talking 
 great nonsense ? '*' she asked suddenly. 
 
 " It is a great deal pleasanter to listen to than 
 cheap cynicism, and snappish epigrams that dry up 
 talk. Do go on. If all the advanced women 
 advocated their theories in such a soft voice " 
 
 " I am not an advanced woman." 
 
 " Oh no, you are not. You deny it so indig- 
 nantly ! I knew you did not mean half you said." 
 
 " Did I say anything so very dreadful } " 
 
 " You fringed the improper now and then, but it 
 doesn't matter — with me. I am a safe person to 
 talk to. I live in the sixteenth century, my critics 
 say. Still, I wouldn't talk so rashly to every one, 
 if I were you." 
 
 " But in my dreadful world everybody says 
 everything," cried the girl desperately. " Every- 
 thing is discussed, everything under heaven and on 
 earth " 
 
 " Yes, I know it. You say almost everything, 
 and mean hardly anything at all — Bohemian fire 
 and fury, signifying nothing. I think you have 
 got rather tired of it all, haven't you } " 
 
 " Yes, very. Since I have known you — you and 
 Lydia." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 141 
 
 " I wonder " he began, as they came to the 
 
 iron gate before the cavernous stairs of Talgarth 
 Mansions, where a dozen grimy children were 
 clambering and playing — and stopped. 
 
 « What ? " 
 
 " If you see much of them ? Do they call on 
 you here ? " 
 
 " My Bohemian friends ? Oh no. I don't invite 
 them. I invite nobody ... I invite you," she 
 said, turning suddenly, and holding out her hand 
 as if to lead him in. " Come up for once, and let 
 me give you some tea. You never have. You 
 have never seen my rooms. I'm afraid Lydia has 
 given you a very unfavourable idea of them. They 
 are not smart, but they are really rather pretty ; 
 but I put the Botticelli angel you gave me over the 
 mantel-piece, to bless me ! Do, do, do come up ! " 
 She pleaded like a child. The line of her upturned 
 chin was exquisite. 
 
 " No ... I won't come up, I think . . . thank 
 you!" said Munday, with a sort of polite brusque- 
 ness. " There isn't time. Good-bye ! " 
 
 " Good-bye, then ! " said she, a little hurt, and 
 darted into the cavernous depths. He stood for a 
 moment and watched the white dress fluttering up 
 the grey stone staircase, then turned away with a 
 sigh, and set his face westwards. 
 
142 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XIII 
 
 " I'm tired, Cossie," said Mrs. Munday. " You 
 had better dance with Lucy ! . . . What is that, 
 Mr. St. Jerome ? You have something to say to 
 me ."* Come and say it then." She indicated a 
 seat beside her. 
 
 The pretty Mrs. Munday was looking unusually 
 pretty in her ball dress of white and silver, and as 
 cool as a lily in the hot glare of a midsummer-eve 
 ball-room. Other women looked like flushed bac- 
 chantes beside her ; her frills never looked tumbled, 
 her flounces never got torn, and her eyes, if they 
 never sparkled, never looked jaded. She did not 
 dance well, perhaps that is why she danced so 
 seldom, but was generally to be found sitting com- 
 placently under the strongest light in the room, 
 whose illumination she confidently invited, in the 
 midst of a little court of admirers, rejoicing their 
 d/ase souls with apt epigrams and mordant sayings 
 and amusing on-dits, for which she was the last 
 person to hold herself responsible. She spared no 
 one, least of all her friends. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 
 
 143 
 
 " I hear that you said a very unkind and untrue 
 thing of me the other day ? " I remarked, proceeding 
 to repeat the piece of malice in question. 
 
 " Did I ? I suppose I did. I can't think what 
 made me. Wasn't it true .? " she replied, undaunted, 
 looking up at me candidly and laughing. 
 
 I got no change out of her, as the phrase is. It 
 was always the way. Presently I strolled away 
 and came across the couple whom Mrs. Munday 
 had precipitated into each other's unwilling arms 
 a few seconds ago. 
 
 " I was trying to persuade your sister " 
 
 Davenant was beginning. 
 
 " Which sister ? " panted Lucy. Bedford Square 
 is apt to pant. " I've got two." 
 
 " I mean Mrs. Munday, of course." 
 
 " I don't see why, * of course ' ! You might have 
 meant Toosie, she's much nearer your age." 
 
 "Let us dance," he said wearily. Lucy was 
 trying to be clever, and succeeding merely in being 
 pert, as usual. Presently they stopped near me 
 again. I caught the phrase — " dances like an angel." 
 
 " I don't think married women have any business 
 to dance at all," was the curt rejoinder. " Dances 
 aren't intended for them." 
 
 " But it must be so delightful to have a married 
 sister to take you out. You and Mrs. Munday 
 must be always together .? " 
 
144 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Not more than we can h than we want to 
 
 be," amended Lucy. " Let us dance ! " It was 
 Lucy who said it this time. They disappeared 
 into the swirl, and I discovered Mrs. Hugo Malory 
 and took her to supper. Mrs. Malory, who is by 
 way of being a social arbitress, had extended the 
 privilege of her acquaintance to Mrs. Munday, who 
 knew the value of it, and took care to present that 
 side of her character which was most likely to ap- 
 peal to that important lady. " One must keep in 
 with Mrs. Malory," she would say to me in her 
 more candid moments. " It is good business." 
 
 "The pretty Mrs. Munday! Ah, I knew her 
 before she was married — long before, in fact," re- 
 marked the social arbitress, as Lydia passed us, on 
 the arm of the most important man in the room. 
 Mrs. Malory always said what she liked, and did 
 not entirely, it will be seen, take Lydia at her own 
 valuation, or accept her little pose without modifi- 
 cation. " She came and told me all about it. Her 
 people are immensely respectable, but dull, and 
 she was dying to get out of their set, don't you 
 know. She had aspirations." 
 
 I knew all this, but it was amusing to hear it 
 stated in a different way. I merely remarked : 
 " How times are changed, when a rich banker's 
 daughter marries an artist for position ! " 
 
 " I know — but so it is ! Ferdinand Munday was 
 
A HARD WOMAN 145 
 
 quite dL parti for her, poor, but well-connected, and 
 in a good set . . . I forget where he met the 
 little Barker. I came across her at a cookery 
 class. One makes odd acquaintances at those 
 places ! She amused me ; she was such a dear 
 little bourgeoise. I asked her to come and see me, 
 and she came very late, and hot, and out of breath, 
 and said she couldn't find her way to Hill Street ! 
 Imagine I " 
 
 "Not to know Hill Street argues oneself un- 
 known ! " 
 
 " I shouldn't mention it, except to show you how 
 wonderfully she has got on ! " 
 
 " She knows her way to Hill Street now, or any 
 other street," said I. 
 
 '* Oh yes, she has managed to make herself the 
 fashion. But I happen to know that a great many 
 people only tolerate her for her husband's sake. 
 He is quite one of us — rather in the clouds, you 
 know — but I like him. He is not a bit like the 
 average artist — very good company — he never 
 bores one with * shop ' talk. But I believe he 
 works very hard. One has to ask him to dinner 
 if one wants to see him." 
 
 " Do you know Mrs. Munday's sister } " I asked. 
 
 " The one called Lucy 1 Vaguely ! A pale 
 replica of Lydia with the ' devil ' left out ! Almost 
 bad form — and there is a brother, I believe, who is 
 
 L 
 
146 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 worse than anything you can imagine ! Lydia's 
 quite the best of them," she concluded, " but she 
 had better take care. I can tell her what will 
 happen if she goes on flirting with that ridiculous 
 boy of the Fulhams." 
 
 " What will happen ? " 
 
 " People will cut her, that's all ! " 
 
 " For flirting ? " 
 
 " For flirting — no ; for flirting with Cossie 
 Davenant — yes." 
 
 " He seems an innocent youth enough." 
 
 " Hopelessly corrupt ! You may believe me. I 
 know. Turn round, Mr. St. Jerome," she said 
 sharply ; " the replica seems to be making signs to 
 attract your attention." 
 
 It was Miss Lucy Barker, partnerless, who, with 
 a pretty boldness, was touching me on the elbow 
 with her fan. Though I was technically supposed 
 to be " Lydia's," all her family treated me with a 
 charming familiarity. 
 
 " Come and talk to me, Mr. St. Jerome. I 
 always rely on you when I haven't a partner." 
 
 " You may," I responded. 
 
 " Yes, because you don't dance. Oh dear, I am 
 so tired ! " She threw herself back on the ottoman. 
 " Wasn't it too bad of Lydia to throw me at the 
 head of that little worm, who didn't even want 
 me ? " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 147 
 
 " Has a worm a curly head and a pretty pink 
 face like that ? " 
 
 " Oh, very pretty, and curly, and white and soft, 
 and everything that a girl's ought to be. Why, 
 he's got a better complexion than me ! Now, 
 please don't say, ' All the better for him ! ' " 
 " Why should I ? " 
 
 " It seemed obvious." A long course of intimacy 
 with Lydia had given her family a keen scent for 
 the obvious taunt, to be forestalled if possible. 
 Lucy had all the bitterness and shrewdness of an 
 oppressed race, combined with a blunt force of 
 expression that always entertained me. 
 
 " I can't stand that boy," she went on, '* and 
 Lydia makes such a donkey of herself about him. 
 He goes everywhere with her. He is devoted to 
 her. Isn't it extraordinary ^ " 
 " She is very handsome," I said. 
 " Ah, you men are all alike. I don't think it's 
 fair, I really don't. Lydia takes everybody." 
 
 " But surely you wouldn't look at Cossie 
 Davenant .'* " 
 
 " No, of course not, but " she laughed cynic- 
 ally, " I believe the original intention was that he 
 should take to me. At least Lydia said so . . . 
 She is always asking what she calls 'a. young 
 man for Lucy ' to her dinners, and then it always 
 ends in his being one for her. I'm sure I 
 
148 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 thought it was the married woman's part to play 
 gooseberry." 
 
 " Yes. That was so once — in the good old days ! 
 Nous avons change tout cela." 
 
 " She always makes me drive her home first 
 when we go out together," continued Lucy, in 
 an injured tone. " She is so afraid of the horse 
 coming down, and her having to get out alone in 
 the street." 
 
 " But supposing the same thing happened to you 
 after you had left her } " 
 
 "I am not so showy as Lydia," said Lucy simply. 
 "She says so herself. Ferdinand is coming to 
 fetch her to-night, from a man's dinner — with 
 speeches. He can't possibly be here yet ! I wish 
 he were." 
 
 *' Ferdinand seems to be a success in the family." 
 
 " Ferdinand's a dear ! " she exclaimed enthusias- 
 tically, and her partner coming up just then to 
 claim her, I walked through the rooms in search of 
 her sister. 
 
 After a while I found Mrs. Munday, by the 
 gleam of her white and silver dress, among the 
 palms in the conservatory. She sat by herself, 
 under a crimson Chinese lantern, wearing a pecu- 
 liarly seraphic expression. 
 
 " Alone ? " I said. 
 
 " Not alone !" she said significantly. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 149 
 
 " * My mind to me a kingdom is.' I know you 
 like quotations." 
 
 " I am not thinking. I never do, unless I'm in 
 bed. It sends one to sleep. No, there are, or were, 
 two old cats just behind that palm — ball-room 
 palms cover a multitude of scandal, don't they ? 
 — busily engaged in taking away my character. I 
 was immensely amused ! " 
 
 " Weren't you taught it's very wrong to listen > " 
 
 " Oh, it's not wrong to listen to two. The 
 number makes all the difference." 
 
 " I see, like robbing a railway oi* an insurance 
 company. Well, what did they say } " 
 
 " I have never heard so much about myself 
 before. It was what the novelists call an * appre- 
 ciation.' I think, but I am not quite sure, that it 
 was that little wretch May Bo wen — she has got 
 a large patch of powder over her left eyebrow ; I 
 meant to tell her, but I shan't now. The other 
 was a woman of uncertain age and figure, and 
 with a whole hearse of feathers on her head ! I 
 don't know her, but I shall make it my business 
 to." 
 
 " To smite her > " 
 
 " I always hit back," said Lydia. " I shall have 
 my little weapon ready." 
 
 " I think I can guess what she said," 
 
I50 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Yes, guess, I give you leave." 
 
 "They hinted that you are making a fool of 
 little Davenant." 
 
 " So long as they don't hint he is making a fool 
 of me ! " 
 
 " I am not sure he isn't." 
 
 " Mr. St. Jerome ! " She half rose from her seat. 
 " There ! Will that do to mark my sense of the 
 insult ? Now I will sit down again. I have known 
 you a long time ; besides, I want to hear. It is so 
 amusing ! " 
 
 " Do you like being talked about } " 
 
 " I don't mind being talked about with Cossie ! " 
 
 " Because he is the son of a lord and the nephew 
 of a duke.?" 
 
 " Mr. St. Jerome ! I shall really have to leave 
 you altogether ! . . . No, I don't mind, because it 
 shows they're jealous of me — the women, I mean." 
 
 " I don't fancy many women would dispute 
 Davenant with you." 
 
 " Now that's the first really unkind thing you 
 have said to me ! It is too bad of you, Mr. St. 
 Jerome. He's a charming boy — awfully handsome 
 and smart — May Bowen would give her eyes to 
 have him about the house." 
 
 " Does Ferdinand like him about the house .? " 
 
 " Oh, Ferdinand ! — ^you know Ferdinand — do 
 
A HARD WOMAN 151 
 
 you suppose he cares if one is alive or dead, or 
 in mischief? He's so wrapped up in his work 
 that I might do any mortal thing I liked, and he 
 would never notice. If I were to tell him that 
 I was going to elope, I believe he would forget to 
 ask who with. Artists ought not to have wives 
 at all . . . Is that his manly form I see leaning 
 against the doorway .? " 
 
 " Yes, it is — looking quite extraordinarily hand- 
 some . . ." 
 
 She put up her pince-nez and surveyed him dis- 
 passionately. ** Yes, really, I have never seen him 
 look so well . . . Will you go and tell him I am 
 here ? " 
 
 I went up to Munday and touched him on the 
 arm. " Mrs. Munday is asking for you." 
 
 " Does she want to go home ? " said he. " I have 
 only just come. Where is she t " 
 
 "Over there, in the conservatory — at the far 
 end.'' 
 
 He joined her. She still had her eyeglass raised. 
 ***** 
 
 " Yes, Ferdinand, you really are " 
 
 "What.?" 
 
 " One of the — no, t/ie handsomest man in the 
 room." 
 
 "Don't, dear." 
 
 " Why not .•* I am looking at you from a purely 
 
152 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 abstract point of view. You know, I attach great 
 importance to looks." 
 
 " Then you would leave me in a moment if my 
 hair turned white ? " 
 
 " No, I shouldn't," she said tenderly. " I should 
 make you dye it ... I don't often consult you, 
 but tell me, do I look nice ? This dress is a 
 supreme effort of Madame Cromer's. Horribly 
 expensive ! " 
 
 " From a purely abstract point of view, you look 
 very well indeed." 
 
 " Why abstract ? " said she absently. 
 
 " Yes, why abstract when the concrete woman 
 is here } " He laid his hand on hers . . . 
 
 " It is rather amusing," said she pensively, " to 
 come to a ball, and flirt with one's own husband." 
 
 " Is that a hint > Shall I go > " 
 
 " No, I like it — for a change. How dark it is out 
 here ! We might be flirting desperately, to look 
 at us, might not we "i We might be lovers 1 " 
 
 " Might we, really } " 
 
 " I flirt rather nicely, I believe." 
 
 " Do you } I have never flirted with you." 
 
 " We//, Ferdinand, you once said yoU were in 
 love with me — if that is anything ! " 
 
 " I do believe, Lydia, that is your one idea of 
 love — a strong flirtation." 
 
 " Perhaps — perhaps not. I don't draw these 
 
A HARD WOMAN 153 
 
 subtle distinctions. I only know that we are sit- 
 ting here in the dark — or the next thing to it — 
 that I think you extremely handsome — and you 
 think me ? " 
 
 " Very pretty indeed ! " 
 
 " As pretty as Nevill ? " 
 
 " I should not think of comparing you. You 
 are of such absolutely different types." 
 
 " And Nevill is your type .? " 
 
 " And you are my wife," he said simply. " I 
 chose you, at any rate." 
 
 " But suppose Nevill had been there first ? " 
 
 " What an impossible remark ! " 
 
 "Nevill wouldn't have thought twice about the 
 answer." 
 
 " What do you mean } " 
 
 " I mean that she would have jumped at the 
 prospect of marrying you." 
 
 " Don't say such things, Lydia." 
 
 " Everybody knows she has a hopeless passion 
 for you. A woman was talking about her to-day 
 — a woman who did not know who I was. I 
 wanted to hear, so I encouraged her." 
 
 " You should have told her you were an intimate 
 friend of Miss France's." 
 
 " How silly, Ferdinand ! Then she wouldn't 
 have said another word. No, I lay low, so as to 
 hear it all." 
 
154 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " All ! What could she have to say about a 
 young girl like Miss France ? " 
 
 " Oh, plenty ! " 
 
 " You had better not tell me." 
 
 "You needn't be huffy, Ferdinand, when you 
 yourself are the worst offender. You calmly get 
 a girl to come and sit to you for hours without a 
 chaperon, and then wonder she's talked about." 
 
 " I get her to come professionally, like any other 
 model ; but I see it won't do, I must not let her 
 sit to me any more." 
 
 "What foolish nonsense!" exclaimed Lydia 
 violently. Then looking at her husband out of 
 the corner of her eye, " Set your mind at rest. 
 No one knows in our set, and in hers it doesn't 
 matter. I only meant that she's a Bohemian, and 
 a Bohemian she will remain. Mrs. Bosanquet did 
 not say anything dreadful, and not anything at all 
 about you. It was only about her theatrical way 
 of dressing, and her wild hair, and her odd bring- 
 ing up, and her free-thinking father — poor girl, 
 she can't help it! Why, we knew she was a 
 Bohemian when we " 
 
 "You speak as if being a Bohemian were a 
 crime ! " 
 
 " It's a misfortune. You can't touch pitch 
 without being defiled ; how if you are born in it } " 
 
 " Are you quite sure that there was nothing 
 
A HARD WOMAN 155 
 
 about her sitting to me in your friend's indictment 
 of poor Nevill ? You are very blunt, Lydia, but I 
 know you always tell the truth." 
 
 " All right ! " said Mrs. Munday easily. " What 
 a fuss you make about being talked about, to be 
 sure ! " 
 
 " It hurts a girl." 
 
 " Ah, you wouldn't care if it was me ! Well, let 
 me tell you, I am a good deal discussed — what 
 they call talked about. I don't mind. I like it. I 
 think a woman ought to be a little compromised, 
 just enough to be fashionable — and no more." 
 
 " Certainly no more ! But how much is fashion- 
 able } And how deeply have you thought it 
 necessary to plunge, to be in the fashion } " 
 
 " Ferdinand, how funny you are ! You are 
 laughing. Should you really like me to be 
 compromised .? " 
 
 " I want my wife to be fashionable — no more." 
 
 " That's the point, of course — the less or the 
 more." 
 
 " I leave the point to you. Who are you com- 
 promised with .'' Tell me all about it." 
 
 " Ferdinand " 
 
 " Well > " 
 
 " I suppose it is that you trust me ? " 
 
 "Of course I trust you. I know by now that 
 you have the most level head in London, and " 
 
156 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " And what ? " 
 
 He took her two hands in his with a certain 
 gravity. "And no heart at all, dear. Shall we 
 go back to the ball-room ? I have monopolized 
 you too long." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 157 
 
 SCENE XIV 
 
 " Two first-class for Swanbergh ! " said the man 
 in front of me at the booking-office of the Great 
 Northern. 
 
 At least, I thought he said two. It was young 
 Davenant. He passed out in front of me, and I 
 took my ticket for Harrogate, and followed him on 
 to the platform. 
 
 It was a raw morning in August. The first rush 
 of summer passengers was over, and the platform 
 was not very full. There is nothing, except per- 
 haps the polished floor of a ball-room, which 
 subjects the " hang " of a woman's gown to such 
 a severe test as the stretch of a nearly empty 
 platform. Mrs. Munday's bore the test brilliantly, 
 as she stood, a neat, compact, graceful figure in 
 tweeds, by the bookstall. Davenant joined her, 
 bought her some light literature, and put her into 
 a carriage. Then he left her, and I walked 
 negligently past the window, without looking in. 
 I did not think she would call to me. She did. 
 
158 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 ** Mr. St. Jerome ! Arc you going to Swan- 
 bergh .? " 
 
 " No ; to Harrogate." 
 
 " Then our ways lie together as far as York." 
 
 "Do they indeed.?" 
 
 " Yes ; so we can travel so far together — unless 
 you want to smoke, but you don't, you would 
 rather talk to me, wouldn't you ? I had just 
 bought your last novel, T/ie Finger of Scorn, — it 
 is your last, isn't it } — at the bookstall, and resigned 
 myself to boredom and sleep, when I saw you. 
 You will be ever so much more amusing." 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 ** Now don't sham modesty. Come in ! How 
 soon do we start ? Where's my idiot ? " 
 
 " Do you mean Mr. Davenant .'* " 
 
 She opened her eyes rather unnecessarily 
 wide. 
 
 " Mr. Davenant ? I mean my porter." 
 
 " I have just met Mr. Davenant. He doesn't 
 look as if he were quite used to being up at this 
 time of day — a little bleary and blinky — he was 
 taking a ticket for Swanbergh too." 
 
 " He was taking a ticket for me. Poor boy, he 
 came to see me off ! I told him he might. But we 
 said good-bye long ago." 
 
 ** I still see him hanging about." 
 
 " He wants to see the back of the train that holds 
 
A HARD WOMAN 159 
 
 me. Come in quick ! " She held open the door of 
 the carriage. 
 
 " Are you quite sure you want me ^ " 
 
 " Quite ! quite ! — since I ask you." 
 
 I went to fetch my bag and rug. I don't know 
 if she and Davenant met again. I could have 
 sworn I had heard him ask for two tickets, but I 
 supposed I was mistaken. At any rate, there was 
 nothing for me to do but accept Mrs. Munday's 
 imperious invitation. 
 
 " And what are you going to do at Swanbergh ? " 
 I asked, as we plunged through the bewildering 
 maze of tunnels that succeed the station. 
 
 " I am going to see if it will do for us to go and 
 vegetate in this autumn. One must go away, I 
 suppose, and have some change after a hard- fought 
 season." 
 
 " You look very fit." 
 
 " Oh, I know, I wear very well. But Ferdinand 
 is suffering from what he calls seasonal depression. 
 He has got neuralgia — he can't stand so many 
 dinner-parties." 
 
 " I should think not — and work ten hours a day 
 as well." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. St. Jerome, he doesn't work as hard as 
 all that ! Sometimes it is only nine." 
 
 " Good heavens ! Is there any need for him to 
 slave in that way ? " 
 
i6o A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " He's never happy except when he's working, 
 so what does it matter ? Besides, a house like ours 
 — though it is a good investment— takes a great 
 deal of keeping going. And I go out so much I 
 have to dress expensively. I believe I'm rather 
 hard up " 
 
 "You believe " 
 
 " Where ignorance is bliss, you know It's 
 
 no good worrying till you have to." Her eyebrows 
 contracted a little. " But I don't let Ferdinand go 
 buying curios now — I should like to sell some of 
 those weVe got I wish he would buy things and 
 sell them again, as some other artists do. It's a 
 very lucrative arrangement, I believe. But he 
 won't . . . Oh, I dare say it's all right. It's no 
 good going before troubles — but if you tell any of 
 them at home, Mr. St. Jerome, I'll kill you ! " she 
 declared, with a return to her old childish manner. 
 
 " You have been entertaining a great deal this 
 season. Your parties are delightful." 
 
 " Are they } Are they really t Now, that's 
 what I live for," she cried, turning a happy face to 
 me. " I do pride myself on my parties. I treat 
 entertaining as a fine art, don't you know, and 
 make it a principle never to ask bores or plain 
 women — plain women shouldn't expect to go out, 
 should they } People who contribute nothing, and 
 only come to look inappropriate. * Poor things, 
 
A HARD WOMAN i6i 
 
 but they enjoy it so ! ' that weak Ferdinand says. 
 Why should they come and enjoy themselves and 
 make my other guests miserable ? A party is a 
 party and not a charity organization society. I 
 always override all those philanthropic considera- 
 tions " 
 
 " Sweet society Juggernaut ! What about rela- 
 tions and family friends ? " 
 
 " I ask them to a kind of omnibus party, and 
 they all stew in their own dullness, and are awfully 
 pleased." 
 
 "And haven't you got to ask your husband's 
 artistic friends ? He must be in with them, you 
 know, if he is to get on." 
 
 " Ferdinand has a club — he asks artists to dinner 
 there. I only ask the presentable ones — with pre- 
 sentable wives — that's the difficulty ! You know, 
 they all seem to have married dressmakers and 
 dairymaids and models when they were young, and 
 didn't think they would ever come to be famous. 
 That's the way I explain it. No, I don't care for 
 artists. I wouldn't let Lucy marry one." 
 " Why, you have married one yourself ! " 
 "Ferdinand is different. You see, he is very 
 well connected. You can do anything if you've 
 got a couple of duchesses or so in your pedigree : 
 wear soft hats and polychrome shirts if you like : 
 though Ferdinand doesn't, thank God. He may 
 
 M 
 
1 62 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 paint untidy people, but he dresses like a man of 
 the world." 
 
 " You don't care for his art ? " I said. 
 
 " Well — it's the fashion. But I must say I like 
 women to have complexions even in pictures." 
 
 " You should sit to him yourself." 
 
 " Thank you, I haven't time. Nevill is coming 
 with us to Swanbergh . . ." 
 
 " I think I see the connection " 
 
 " She hasn't an ounce of colour, has she ? I 
 asked her to come — as our guest. Poor girl, she 
 couldn't afford a holiday otherwise, and, really, she 
 saves me a good deal of trouble." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Oh, she runs errands for mq^ ^nd helps me, and 
 plays the piano, and sings — I dropped all that 
 when I married. Ferdinand likes it, though. It 
 soothes him when he is nervous, and he always is 
 now. Music is a capital derivative, he says . . . 
 Oh yes, she'll come down with her lute and a 
 bunch of coloured ribbons and a simper, as soon as 
 we get a little settled. I've never seen this place, 
 you know. It may be awfully ugly, but I don't 
 care for scenery, and I do for comfort. I wouldn't 
 stir a hundred yards to see the most beautiful 
 waterfall in the world. Let it come to me if it 
 wants me to admire it ! " 
 
 " That would be practically rather unpleasant." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 163 
 
 " Oh, you know what I mean ! Comfort before 
 everything! . . . Well, some one told me of an 
 hotel at Swanbergh — cheap — awfully comfortable 
 — bracing air — plenty of nice people near to call 
 on " 
 
 " A little London by the sea, in fact." 
 
 " That's what Ferdinand says. But if one must 
 go to be braced, why not be braced in good 
 company ? It struck me we might colonize 
 Swanbergh — ask our friends down " 
 
 " Expensive ? " 
 
 " I mean they should come there to be near us, 
 stay in the same hotel, and we should be there and 
 make it pleasant for them. They should pay their 
 own bills, of course." 
 
 "What an extremely adroit way of exercising 
 hospitality ! " 
 
 " Yes, isn't it clever of me ? And then if they 
 bore me, we can go away and leave them. But of 
 course it all depends on whether I like the place. 
 It may be hateful. This is a trial trip. After I 
 have slept there a night, I shall know." 
 
 "And how will you know if it will suit your 
 husband ? " 
 
 " Oh, Ferdinand doesn't care in the least how 
 he lives. For an artist he is most astonishingly 
 innocent of fads — except his cats — and, thank 
 goodness, he can't take them away with him. 
 
1 64 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 They will have to be put on board wages. There's 
 a great big yellow one called Jupiter — I wish you 
 heard the way Ferdinand and Nevill go on about 
 him. It is quite ridiculous ! They talk to him — 
 actually talk to him ! Now / never get beyond 
 'Puss! Puss!'" 
 
 " I have no doubt they furnish all the cat stories 
 in The Spectator between them. Tell me, how is 
 Miss France t " 
 
 " Oh, she's very well . . . She's at our place 
 now." 
 
 "Staying?" 
 
 " I asked her to come for a few days, just while 
 I was away, to keep house for Ferdinand. He's 
 begun a new picture of her. She sits every day. 
 She may as well live on the spot . . . You 
 needn't look so shocked. I've put an old woman 
 in." 
 
 "A caretaker.?" 
 
 "Aunt Elspeth." She laughed. "I did as I 
 would be done by. She's the very chaperon I 
 would have chosen for myself. They are always 
 reviling me at home for not being kind to Aunt 
 Elspeth or inviting her to come and see me, so I 
 thought this was a capital opportunity to be civil. 
 Ferdinand is always so nice to her. He always is 
 nice to old women — and then they come and 
 pester me and rave about my delightful husband ! 
 
A HARD WOMAN 165 
 
 . . . Why, here's Grantham ! I wonder which of 
 us has talked the most ? . . . Aunt Elspeth is deaf, 
 so Nevill and Ferdinand can chatter away about 
 the higher ethics and the higher everything to their 
 hearts' content. I'm out of it." 
 
 " You need not be. I'd back you to take up any 
 subject you " 
 
 " Oh, I dare say I could get it all up if I chose," 
 she said, "but I don't choose. It bores me. I 
 don't care for abstractions — not built that way. 
 And I hate arguments — arguments about things 
 that can't in the very nature of them be settled. 
 I don't care for philosophy, and I can only stand a 
 very little poetry, and it must be of the very best." 
 
 " Shakespeare ^ " 
 
 " Shakespeare ! Oh, we had him at school ! 
 Nevill and Ferdinand discuss him by the hour. I go 
 away and amuse myself. I'm sure I am very much 
 obliged to Nevill for relieving me of Ferdinand's 
 surplus sentimentality. I'm not equal to immen- 
 sities, they tire me. I don't pretend to sympathize 
 with that side of my husband's nature, and I'm 
 glad there is somebody who can. I'm no good at 
 gush!" 
 
 " You have not, I should say, the artistic temper- 
 ament strongly developed." 
 
 " And a good thing too," she broke in. " I 
 detest the artistic temperament — I think it con- 
 
1 66 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 temptible. It's just an excuse for taking all your 
 own way and none of the consequences, for hurting 
 other people atid not saying youVe sorry ; for ill- 
 treating your wife, because you're putting her in a 
 novel ! Whenever a man does anything dreadful 
 or makes a particular fool of himself—it's the 
 artistic temperament ! If an actress leads an 
 immoral life, everybody receives her — * Poor thing ! 
 it is the artistic temperament ! ' Look at Shelley ! 
 Look at Byron ! Forgive them, for Tthey had the 
 artistic temperament ! I can't stand it. I think 
 clever people have just as much need to be good as 
 any one else." 
 
 " Brava ! Brava ! I never heard such a fervid 
 piece of morality from you before. You seem to 
 have considered the question deeply." 
 
 " I suppose it is talking to Nevill. Mr. St. 
 Jerome, I'm not narrow — I suppose I can sympa- 
 thize with all the new ideas, but really, that girl 
 goes a little too far for me." 
 
 "In practice } " 
 
 " Oh, no ! Poor girl, she hasn't the courage of 
 her opinions — she wouldn't have the spirit to carry 
 them out. She's an awfully good little girl at 
 heart; I would trust her with my husband or 
 untold gold." 
 
 "You do," I said meaningly. 
 
 " Never fear ! I carry my own cheque-book . . . 
 
A HARD WOMAN 167 
 
 But Nevill is a perfect revelation to me. Her 
 education seems to have been deplorable. Until 
 her shady old father died, she appears to have held 
 a sort of miscellaneous salon in Bohemia, where 
 all sorts of queer people came and talked " 
 
 " Scandal ? " 
 
 "Oh no, nothing so respectable — anarchism — 
 socialism — and improper theories generally. She 
 has picked up all sorts of ridiculous ideas — that 
 dreadful doctrine of the equality of the sexes " 
 
 "You believe implicitly in the superiority of 
 your own, don't you ? " 
 
 " How can there be equality between two things 
 of such absolutely different denominations } " said 
 she trenchantly, and I thought I recognized this 
 speech as coming from a source from which this 
 clever woman occasionally condescended to borrow 
 — her husband. 
 
 " Miss France seems to be a very remarkable 
 young lady." 
 
 " Not remarkable at all, only silly ! " 
 
 " And very pretty ! " 
 
 " You think so } So does Mr. Verschoyle. He 
 wants to marry her." 
 
 " He's a little— dreary } " 
 
 " Oh, I dare say — but he's an excellent match. I 
 tell her she is a perfect fool to treat him so badly." 
 
 " She mustn't marry him if she doesn't love him." 
 
1 68 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Love ! Love ! People are always babbling 
 about love. It's best to get all one's love affairs 
 over before marriage, I think. Look at Nevill ! 
 Isn't it too absurd of her to sacrifice everything to 
 her little fancy for Ferdinand — as if that would 
 last all her life ! A fatal passion is very picturesque 
 and romantic and all that, and I'm the last person 
 to object to it, although I'm his wife, but it won't 
 make her a home and a position. I laugh at her. 
 I say, 'You know, Nevill, it's all very well your 
 adoring Ferdinand — great artist — homme incompris 
 — intellectual sympathy — and all that, but un- 
 fortunately he's already married to me. I can't 
 help it, so you had much better take the next 
 best ' " 
 
 " And isn't she offended ? " 
 
 " Offended ? How should she be } I am only 
 chaffing her. Lots of women are in love with 
 Ferdinand, don't you know. He has that way of 
 looking at each of them as if they were the most 
 interesting persons in the world to him for the 
 moment. He can't help it — it is his eyes. But 
 he's not the least bit of a flirt. He is quite devoted 
 to me and always will be ! ... I do believe this 
 is York ! I don't change, thank goodness ! " 
 
 The train slowed down. I gave up my ticket 
 and gathered together my possessions. " Now 
 you can honour me by perusing The Finger of Scorn 
 
A HARD WOMAN 169 
 
 during the remainder of the journey," I said, as I 
 left her. 
 
 " Ah, yes," she replied absently. " Good-bye. 
 You will come to us at Swanbergh by and by ? " 
 
 But I don't think she got on very far with the 
 humble work in question, for as I left the platform 
 I saw Davenant sidling towards the carriage I had 
 just vacated. 
 
170 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XV 
 
 " No, you none of you know how to give a 
 picnic," said Mrs. Munday, indolently shifting a 
 gorgeous lace parasol from one shoulder to another, 
 and glancing round good-humouredly at us all. 
 The sun was shining on the esplanade at Swan- 
 bergh, the band was playing, the cheerful rattle of 
 little wooden spades and sticks was heard on the 
 asphalte, an unlimited prospect of iron railings 
 and lamp-posts, and a selection of her London 
 friends gathered round her, gave Mrs. Munday a 
 pleasant sense of civilization and urban felicity 
 which the stretch of blue sea and yellow sand seen 
 through these very railings did not go far to dissi- 
 pate. She smiled lazily; she was quite happy. 
 " Just you wait till I give mine." 
 
 " How will you do yours .'* " inquired Mrs. Bowen 
 deferentially. She and her husband were Mrs. 
 Munday's guests at the Royal Swanbergh Hotel — 
 on the terms indicated by Mrs. Munday to me in 
 our last interview ! So was Miss Lucy Barker and 
 Mr. Woffle, Q.C., whom Mrs. Munday meant to 
 
A HARD WOMAN 171 
 
 marry to the said Lucy, and Cossie Davenant, 
 and Mrs. Hugo Malory, who sat a little aloof from 
 the party with an improving novel. I had not 
 been able to find room, and had put up at the rival 
 hotel on the other side of the harbour. 
 
 Mrs. Munday settled her cushion comfortably 
 between her shoulders — it was Cossie's mission to 
 carry that cushion about — and went on deliber- 
 ately : " I shall be very careful to choose a fine 
 day " — at Mrs. Bowen's picnic, the week before, it 
 had rained hopelessly. Mrs. Munday's manner, 
 however, appeared to indicate some special relations 
 with the clerk of the weather ! " I shall see that 
 the livery stable people send me a pair of horses 
 that are used to drawing a waggonette " — coming 
 back from Davenant's party to Satwick the horses 
 had bolted, and nearly thrown us all over the clifif ! 
 " I shall provide enough to eat," — at Mr. Woffle's 
 unfortunate lunch at Heygate Moss the sandwiches 
 had given out ! " And I shall have enough men 
 to go round," — she glanced at Mrs. Hugo Malory, 
 at whose stately tea on the sands last week there 
 had been a marked preponderance of ladies. " And, 
 Mr. St. Jerome, I shall expect you to bring the 
 great Mr. Calder-Marston." 
 
 " But I don't know him — not even by sight." 
 " I see by the Swanbergh list of visitors that he 
 is staying at your hotel," 
 
172 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "And if he is?" 
 
 " Oh, meet him on the stairs — knock him down 
 by accident and apologize — you know how these 
 things are done." 
 
 " I thought you hated actors ? " I said, privately 
 resolving that nothing should induce me to knock 
 Calder-Marston down and ask him to a picnic, 
 even to please the lady who exercised such a 
 pleasant terror over us. 
 
 " As a rule. They have neither complexions nor 
 manners. But Calder-Marston is quite the head 
 of his profession. I've heard he is charming, and 
 that behind the scenes in his theatre is as respect- 
 able " 
 
 " As the aisles of a church ! How wrong ! 
 But I will try and get him to come, if only for Miss 
 France's sake." 
 
 " For Nevill ! Nonsense ! I couldn't allow 
 Nevill to bore him with her dramatic aspirations — 
 one doesn't want to do business in the country. 
 No, I want him to add lustre to my picnic. I mean 
 it to be the picnic. I shall only invite nice people." 
 
 " Who is this fearful bounder corning along } " 
 said Davenant suddenly. 
 
 The next moment a young but large and florid 
 personage wearing the most yellow of yellow boots, 
 the most blazing of " blazers," and the widest of 
 wide-brimmed straw hats, loomed portentous over 
 
A HARD WOMAN 173 
 
 Mrs. Munday's parasol, and stretched out a large 
 hand bulging with rings over the back of the seat 
 towards her. 
 
 " Hullo, Lyd ! Didn't expect to see me, did 
 you ? Thought I'd make a push and run over to 
 see you. It's only a two hours' run from Man- 
 chester. Good idea, isn't it ? How do, Lucy ? 
 How do, St. Jerome ? Introduce me to your 
 friends, Lyd." 
 
 But Mrs. Munday's friends had somehow drifted 
 away, and only Lucy stood by them, looking down 
 on her brother with undisguised disgust. 
 
 " Come and listen to the band, Miss Barker," I 
 said. " Isn't that your favourite Cavalleria ? " 
 
 " Yes, go and see the cavalry, Lucy, I want to 
 talk to Lyd." 
 
 " You'll have to ask him to your picnic ! " I 
 could not refrain from whispering to Mrs. Munday 
 as I left her. 
 
 * ^ * 4|& « 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Really, Fred ! 
 Fred. Really what t 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Coming down on me like 
 that! 
 
 Fred {angrily). Coming down like what } 
 Mrs. Munday, Like — like — well, like yourself. 
 Fred. Well, I'm not a repulsive object, am I } 
 Mrs. Munday {looking at him critically through 
 
174 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 her pince-nez). You arc a very striking object, 
 Fred dear, in that jacket. They may well call 
 them blazers. 
 
 Fred. I should have thought you would have 
 been glad to see your only brother. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {severely). You should have 
 written. 
 
 Fred. Not a bit of it ! 'Soon done as thought 
 of with me ! I just saw a vacancy — things pretty 
 slack just now — chucked a few things into a bag, 
 and came on just as I stood. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You might have stood in a 
 decent hat at any rate. 
 
 Fred. What's the matter with the hat.? 
 Ordinary common or garden straw hat, isn't it } 
 Mind yourself, Lyd, and see where that bow of 
 yours is going to .? It's preposterous ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Fred, I don't invite you to 
 criticize my clothes ! 
 
 Fred. Look here, Lyd, don't let us look as if 
 we were quarrelling, eh } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Sit down then, and keep your 
 stick quiet. You make me so nervous I don't 
 know what to do. What train are you going 
 back by 1 
 
 Fred. Going back } Why, that's a good 'un ! 
 Time enough to think of that ! I'm going to stay 
 a bit, now I'm here. I like the look of that hotel 
 
A HARD WOMAN 175 
 
 you are at. I called in to ask where you were 
 — asked for your husband ; he wasn't well, they 
 told me. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. No, the place doesn't suit him 
 — too many alkalis flying about. 
 
 Fred. Where did you get hold of that about 
 alkalis .? Well, the place suits you, at any rate, 
 Lyd. You look ripping. Enjoying yourself, eh ? 
 I read all your fine friends' names iri the hotel 
 book ... 1 see you have got the Hon. Cosmo 
 Davenant here ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't call him that, please ! 
 
 Fred. Why .? isn't he the Hon. .? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes ; but you are not obliged 
 to mention it. 
 
 Fred. Don't teach me, Lyd. I see his name 
 in the papers constantly. I've seen h'm too — 
 looks a delicate sort of a chap — no shoulders to 
 speak of, but makes the best of himself — dresses 
 well 
 
 Mrs. Munday. He wears the right sort of 
 collar, which is more than you do. 
 
 Fred. All right, I'll observe. I'm not above 
 taking a hint from the aristocracy. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't. 
 
 Fred. Don't what ? Bless you, they've time 
 to think of clothes. We're so busy making money 
 up our way 
 
176 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday {eagerly). Yes, that reminds 
 me, Fred, now you are here you may as well answer 
 me what I have been asking you, by letter and 
 wire, for months. You wretch ! You never 
 answer either! 
 
 Fred. Dear me ! If I were to answer all the 
 women's letters I get 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You never get a letter from a 
 woman except on business, I'll dare swear — and 
 this is business, and I've a right to hear about 
 my own affairs. 
 
 Fred. Look out ! You're getting quite 
 excited, Lyd. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Of course — I'm anxious. 
 
 Fred {mocking). Was it anxious — a poor little 
 quaking thing } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I wish you would give a civil 
 answer to a civil question, Fred. 
 
 Fred. I wish you would not bother me with 
 business on a broiling day like this. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't, Fred, don't for goodness' 
 sake mop your forehead like that ! They are all 
 watching us ! Look here, what about those shares 
 that were allotted to me .<* 
 
 Fred. It's all right — don't you worry. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You told me they'd go to a 
 premium in a month. Have they.? It's five 
 months since I went in, and I've seen no quotation. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 177 
 
 Fred. Haven't you ? Now, that's queer, you 
 know, very queer. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't chaff me, Fred. You 
 are no good at it ; you never were. Are those 
 shares over par ? 
 
 Fred. Not exactly. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. What — below par? One? — 
 two ? — three ? {Fred shakes his head at each figure^ 
 Oh, I say ! And you told me I could unload at a 
 premium in a month ! 
 
 Fred. So you could have, if — only — why, 
 haven't you heard of the slump in mining stuff? 
 Why, you don't know anything up in your village ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, I'm done— simply— if it 
 goes wrong. 
 
 Fred. I can't command the market, can I ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You said you could — or I 
 wouldn't have come in. It's too bad ! I 
 
 Fred. Calm yourself, ma'am ! It's all right. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Swear ! 
 
 Fred {uneasily). Swear ? What rot ! What 
 do you want me to swear ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. That it's all right — and Roberts 
 and Cohen are all right — and that we're going to 
 get something out of it. 
 
 Fred. Of course you are, silly. Why, Lyd, 
 you used not to be a nervous fool ! Has Ferdinand 
 been making you timid ? 
 
178 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday {Jiastily). Ferdinand knows 
 nothing about — I mean, I'm not timid . . . but I'm 
 beginning to feel . . . the want of cash . . . there ! 
 
 Fred. Spent all the ready, eh? Well, sell 
 some of that old Palissy of yours you were making 
 such a fuss about the other day when I came. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I have. 
 
 Fred. Oh, you have } How does Munday 
 stand it ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. He hasn't noticed yet — but he 
 will. I've sold lots of things — that majolica bowl 
 I showed you — I got three hundred for it. But 
 Madame Cromer soon swallowed that up — and 
 there's the dining-room crying for a new carpet — 
 and I've cut off the flowers for the dinner-table and 
 put down the carriage — I say it is more convenient 
 to hire — and I sell my old dresses, and do heaps of 
 dreadful things that I never thought I should come 
 down to . . . and still people clamour for money 
 . . . and I don't like it, Fred ! 
 
 Fred. There, there, don't whine — ^just wait for 
 the rise — it must come, and then you realize. 
 Mind you, it's a splendid thing, and well worth 
 waiting for. Here ! let's talk of something else, 
 they are all coming back . . . What's that about a 
 picnic you are going to give ? I don't mind staying 
 for it ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday {quickly). I can't afford to give 
 
A HARD WOMAN 179 
 
 picnics ... Go back to the hotel for me, Fred, 
 will you, and ask Celeste for my other parasol. 
 This one is so heavy, I can't possibly walk home 
 with it. 
 
 « * * * « 
 
 Fred went, sulkily. I approached Mrs. Munday, 
 who, after delivering her commission with that air 
 of command which never failed to overawe even 
 Fred, had relapsed into a little attitude of help- 
 lessness which rather enlisted my sympathies. 
 
 " I have been telling them all about your 
 brother," I said. 
 
 " What } " she asked nervously. 
 
 " Oh, that he's one of the great financiers of the 
 day, the King of Contango, and the Controller of 
 all the Bulls and Bears of the Manchester Stock 
 Exchange. They were immensely impressed." 
 
 " Thank you," she said quickly ; adding, " May 
 Bowen is so spiteful." 
 
 " I addressed myself especially to her." 
 
 "You are very nice," said she. She got up, 
 and, sitting beside Mrs. Hugo Malory and Nevill, 
 entered into conversation with some gentle com- 
 monplace uttered in the little deferential tone 
 which she knew so well how to assume when 
 she chose. Mrs. Bowen and Davenant presently 
 joined us. 
 
 " I like your brother, Lydia," said Mrs. Bowen 
 
i8o A HARD WOMAN 
 
 reflectively, "something so honest and straight- 
 forward and blunt about him." 
 
 "Cat!" I said to myself. 
 
 " I wonder why I never met him at your house ? " 
 
 " He lives at Manchester," said Lydia quickly, 
 " and seldom comes to London. Our paths diverged 
 early. He went out of my life, or rather, I went 
 out of his. I hardly knew him at first when he 
 dawned on us so suddenly just now." 
 
 "It's a wise sister that doesn't know her own 
 brother," said May Bowen. "Who's got a 
 watch ? Isn't it about time we all went in to 
 lunch ? There isn't a soul left on the sands." 
 
 " I see one melancholy being walking all alone 
 by the sad sea marge," said I, " eyes cast down — 
 communing with the sullen ocean " 
 
 " Did you ever see such a despairing outline ? " 
 said Lydia. " He does not look as if he were 
 going home to a good lunch, does he ? 'Looks as 
 if he'd got nobody to look after him, nobody to 
 cherish him " 
 
 "Don't, Lydia!" whispered Nevill, who had 
 seized a glass and had been looking through it. 
 "It's— it's Mr. Munday." 
 
 Mrs. Munday broke into a nervous laugh. 
 
 " The world knows nothing of its greatest men 
 — or their wives either, it seems. I didn't recognize 
 him. He's meditating a picture. Go and fetch 
 
A HARD WOMAN i8i 
 
 him, Nevill. You have power to soothe the savage 
 breast! We will go home. Won't Fred be 
 cross," she whispered to me, " when he comes 
 trailing all the way back with my parasol and 
 finds us gone ! I meant him to. I shall expedite 
 him back to Manchester as soon as possible. I 
 shan't help him to enjoy Swanbergh or allow him 
 to flirt with May Bowen. She's quite ready to — 
 if only to spite me. Oh, what a fighting world 
 this is ! " 
 
1 82 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XVI 
 
 After all, Mrs. Munday's picnic (she waited till 
 Fred had gone) was like most other picnics, except 
 for the fact that all children were ruthlessly elimi- 
 nated. Mrs. Malory's boys were left at home — 
 " One of them would be sure to fall into the river, 
 and then Mrs. Malory would have to pretend that 
 she cared, and break up the party ! " About eleven 
 o'clock we all piled into a wagonette and drove 
 ten miles inland to a village on the banks of a 
 moorland stream. Then we all disposed ourselves 
 in various cramped and uncomfortable attitudes 
 round a large white bulgy table-cloth studded with 
 dishes, like a well-stuffed cushion with buttons. 
 
 It was pleasant enough on the whole. The 
 babble of the river and the popping of champagne 
 corks made a cheerful noise. We none of us 
 found more than an earwig apiece in our salad, 
 and most of the spiders and caterpillars that came 
 dangling down from our leafy roof considerately 
 stopped short of our plates. Mrs. Munday sat at 
 
A HARD WOMAN 183 
 
 the head of the table-cloth, robed in the most 
 elaborate of muslin confections. It looked so 
 simple that it must have been hideously expensive. 
 She looked very handsome — brown as a berry, and 
 a little stouter than she used to be — the realization 
 of a successful rustication in the midst of the 
 luxuries of town life. 
 
 " Doesn't Lydia love to ' boss the show ' ? " said 
 little Mrs. Bowen to me. " She is quite happy — 
 she has taken Swanbergh under her special pro- 
 tection. She's the Mayor and Corporation and 
 City Police all in one ! Look ! she is telling my 
 husband that she thinks the system of harbour 
 dues in Swanbergh is faulty, and ought to be 
 improved " 
 
 Mr. Bowen, the American, sat on one side of 
 Mrs. Munday, on the other Lucy's neglected suitor, 
 Woffle, Q.C. Spite of her disinterested advocacy 
 of his suit, with her sister, Mrs. Munday could hardly 
 conceal her very low opinion of his social qualities. 
 Lucy, by discreet manoeuvring, had managed 
 to place him there, and herself as far away from 
 the sisterly eye as possible, between me and her 
 easily suborned brother-in-law. " Lydia is so 
 cross," she whispered ; " she meant me to sit next 
 to Mr. Woffle. Now she's got him herself. She 
 wants me to have him for life ; let us see how she 
 likes him for luncheon ! " 
 
i84 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Opposite us sat Nevill France and Davenant — 
 the Tragic Muse and a very sulky Antinous. They 
 had not meant to sit next each other, either. 
 
 " I always go where I am amused, and little 
 Mrs. Munday amuses me," Mrs. Hugo Malory had 
 remarked when she heard of the picnic. She sat 
 there now with an air of being willing to be enter- 
 tained, beside a tall man with scanty grey hair, 
 and no conversation at all, whom she had asked 
 leave to bring. Nobody caught his name when 
 she introduced him, and his company was of so 
 negative a quality that nobody troubled to ascertain 
 it, but it sounded like Morrison. 
 
 " I wish that delightful Mr. Fred Barker hadn't 
 gone away," remarked Mrs. Bowen to me ; " I tried 
 hard to keep him. I liked him — so frank and 
 unspoiled ! He told me the whole history of his 
 
 sister's engagement. It appears that " 
 
 ** You forget that I knew Mrs. Munday before — " 
 I began warningly. 
 
 " Oh yes, so you did. You were always about 
 
 at 56, Bedford Square. I used to think " 
 
 In art — and innuendo — a part is better than the 
 whole. Mrs. Bowen had grasped that great fact. 
 
 "The engagement was quite a bomb to us all," 
 she continued. " He was so out of Lydia's set. I 
 forget where she met him — at a foreign hotel, I 
 believe. He is a nice man, isn't he } My husband 
 
A HARD WOMAN 185 
 
 knew him long before he married — he is one of 
 his best buyers. We've got the ' Psyche/ Mr. 
 Munday is quite one of our leading artists now. 
 Sure to be an R.A. I think him so handsome — 
 rather dark, you know, but that's his French blood. 
 He looks sad, too, doesn't he } " 
 
 " Let us call it romantic." 
 
 "And Lydia isn't the least bit romantic. She 
 really chaffs her husband too much, doesn't she.^" 
 
 " You think she freezes the genial current of his 
 artistic soul with epigrams } I admit she has 
 rather a talent that way." 
 
 ** Anybody can make impromptu epigrams like 
 hers, only it takes time to really think them out be- 
 forehand. I've lots in reserve myself that I haven't 
 been able to place yet. Now there is an awfully 
 good one — only I don't think I shall ever be able 
 to bring it off! It needs a dinner-party, and a 
 general, and some caviare, and I must be hostess. 
 Then I should say to the waiter, ' Caviare to the 
 General!'" 
 
 The superior epigrammatist at the head of the 
 table caught this flight of fancy on the part of her 
 friend, and smiled superior. 
 
 " When is an epigram not an epigram ? " she 
 asked carelessly. 
 
 "When isn't it one.?" answered the other 
 suspiciously. 
 
i86 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "When it's caviare — to the general." 
 
 Mrs. Bowen subsided, and ate jam puffs with 
 ardour. Presently — 
 
 " Do you admire Miss France ? All men do.'* 
 
 " And all women ? " 
 
 "All women say they do. Wonderful eyes, 
 hasn't she ? But they are sad too. Mr. Munday 
 always paints from her, doesn't he } She's his 
 type — or has he made his type like her ? He has 
 made her the fashion, at any rate. They say 
 the President wanted her to sit to him, but she 
 won't sit to any artist but Ferdinand Munday, 
 and he will paint no one else. One can hardly enter 
 an exhibition now without those great serious eyes 
 looking down from the walls at one. I'm getting 
 rather tired of it. I wonder his wife isn't, too." 
 
 " Have another jam puff .-^ " 
 
 "Yes, please. It's a funny arrangement, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The Munday mhiage a trots. But it works 
 very well. Lydia doesn't mind a bit ; in fact, I 
 think it relieves her that Ferdinand should have 
 some one to pour out his soul to. Now / should 
 be jealous. I couldn't stand an under-study." 
 
 " I am sure Munday is the last man to encourage 
 — to allow anything that might lead to — talk." 
 
 " Oh, don't look like that ! I didn't say it was 
 
A HARD WOMAN 187 
 
 an open scandal — and besides, he would be the last 
 person to know it, if it was. Sinners never hear 
 any harm of themselves. Oh, there isn't the 
 slightest flirtation, in the strict sense of the word ; 
 they are both incapable of it. Only an intellectual 
 sympathy. I believe Lydia started Cossie Davenant 
 in self-defence. He is always with her, runs her 
 errands, carries her cloak, gets her opera tickets — 
 I always say that the Mundays are a most fin de 
 siecle couple . . ." 
 
 I hastily handed her the dish of jam puffs. 
 
 " No, thanks, no more," she said. " I don't think 
 they are so very good after all !" 
 
 She ought to have known — she had eaten eight. 
 I could not hope to stop her little silly mouth any 
 more with them, so I turned round and watched 
 Ferdinand drawing caricatures to amuse his sister- 
 in-law. They were really very funny, 
 
 " I had no idea you were a caricaturist, Munday," 
 said I, " the painter of the * Footsteps of Time ' " 
 
 " Oh, I laugh sometimes that I may not weep," 
 he said, in an offhand way. " Do you suppose 
 because I paint people as Galahads and goddesses 
 that I don't see them as they really are } " 
 
 " Yes, Ferdinand's a fearful cynic," said his wife, 
 "though you wouldn't think it. A confirmed 
 pessimist ! Schopenhauer's nothing to him. He 
 caricatures everything, except me. I won't allow 
 
1 88 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 it. Did you ever see his book about our cats ? 
 He has made them the principals; they are big 
 instead of us, while we sit about on chairs and on 
 the floor just as they do. I never can see the fun 
 of it, but " 
 
 " It might make a cat laugh," said her husband 
 gravely, " but you have no sense of humour, Lydia, 
 you know." 
 
 " Oh yes, I have. I have my own peculiar sense 
 of humour. An Ibsen play never fails to amuse 
 me, and the Pall Mall Theatre tragedies are 
 delightfully comic. Last season " 
 
 " Isn't it getting a little damp ? These September 
 days — " interrupted Mrs. Malory, " I am rather 
 afraid of " 
 
 " Of catching cold, dear Mrs. Malory ? Let us 
 all go and walk about, by all means ... I can't 
 get up gracefully, because of pins and needles." 
 
 She did, however, very gracefully. Into the 
 wood she strolled away with me — not, unfortun- 
 ately, to flirt with me, but, as it proved, to scold. 
 
 " Mr. St. Jerome, I am very cross with you 
 indeed. Poor Mr. Woffle was wretched all lunch- 
 time because Lucy was flirting with you. Of 
 course I know you weren't, really, but I do think 
 it's too bad of you to prevent Lucy settling. The 
 poor girl will never make up her mind if you will 
 distract her so." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 189 
 
 "But I wanted to talk to her ! " 
 
 " You don't want to marry her, I suppose, and 
 Mr. Woffle does ! . . . And I do think it was too 
 stupid of you not to get hold of Calder-Marston 
 for my picnic ; you promised." 
 
 " But I never even came across him ! Never 
 knew which was he even " 
 
 " You didn't take any trouble, I am sure ; though 
 you knew I wanted him. He would have balanced 
 that dreadfully dull man Mrs. Malory brought. 
 He spoke once — no, was it twice i* — and then he 
 said, * It would have been better broiled 1 ' " 
 
 " Referring to the salmon, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I'm getting tired of Mrs. Malory," she remarked, 
 as we strolled back to the circle. "She makes 
 such an absurd fuss about Nevill. I didn't ask 
 Nevill here to put herself forward, and I think it 
 is very officious indeed of Mrs. Malory." 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 "I have just been asking Miss France," said 
 Mrs. Malory rather solemnly, coming forward, " if 
 she will have the goodness to recite something 
 to us." 
 
 " Oh, do you like recitations, dear Mrs. Malory .? " 
 
 *' I have a very particular reason for wishing to 
 hear Miss France," said Mrs. Malory, "and my 
 friend, here, is very anxious too " 
 
 " I confess I hate recitations," said Mrs. Munday 
 
I90 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 resignedly, " but if Mr. wishes " glaring a 
 
 little at Mrs. Malory's friend. 
 
 " But Miss France won't recite ! She is terribly 
 hard to persuade — she is so diffident. Won't you 
 try, Mrs. Munday } " 
 
 " I — I have never even heard her," said Mrs. 
 Munday. " She may be right to be diffident — it 
 might turn out a horrid fiasco." 
 
 " Still we are all — or nearly all — indulgent here," 
 said Mrs. Malory, in what people called her terrible 
 manner. " Do persuade her." 
 
 " Oh, certainly, if Nevill feels equal to it," said 
 Mrs. Munday coldly, as Nevill approached. 
 
 " I do not feel equal to it," said the latter 
 decidedly. 
 
 " My dear child," said Mrs. Malory, *' to please 
 me — to please Mr. Munday . . . Ferdinand, make 
 her ! " 
 
 "Do, Nevill," said he. 
 
 She turned round. 
 
 " I will if you wish it," she replied, with ever 
 so slight an accent on the jyou. She took up her 
 position in the middle of the group, drew herself 
 up, and remained standing quite still, straight and 
 upright. " She knows how to stand," I said to 
 myself. Waving her hands once or twice, as if to 
 create for herself an atmosphere, she began. It 
 was some fashionable ntorceau or other. The 
 
A HARD WOMAN 191 
 
 sunken eyes of Mrs. Malory's friend began to glow 
 in the dull opaque mask of his complexion . . . 
 he covered his eyes with his hand . . . 
 
 I write plays sometimes. I hate recitations. 
 But there was something new, something true, 
 about this girl's acting — a convincingness which 
 entirely differentiated her from the hundred and 
 one dramatic bunglers I have had to listen to in 
 the course of my life. She was less forcible than 
 some — less picturesque than others — but she had 
 a * note,' as we writers phrase it, a note of her own, 
 absolutely personal and original. I had fancied 
 her too clever, too argumentative, too full of 
 theories to be a good actress, yet she now seemed 
 to have that divine simplicity and directness which 
 I have always considered to be the concomitant of 
 the true dramatic temperament. 
 
 When she had done, her eyes interrogated 
 Munday's, not those of Mrs. Malory's guest, which 
 were, however, sedulously bent on her. He raised 
 his eyebrows — made a few steps forward — and 
 laid his hand in a fatherly way on her arm ! 
 . . . Then I knew who he was ! 
 
 " You must come to me," he said. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Her fortune is made ! " said Mrs. Malory 
 triumphantly, when Nevill and the stranger had 
 wandered away among the trees in earnest conversa- 
 
192 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 tion. ** He took to her from the very moment she 
 opened her lips — and he never goes back. Her 
 future is assured. I planned it all. I brought 
 him here on purpose. I am so glad ! " 
 
 " Why > What ? " asked Lydia Munday. " Who 
 is that gentleman, and what has he to do with 
 Nevill's future ^ I did not catch his name." 
 
 "That is Mr. Calder-Marston, the great actor- 
 manager — how odd that you none of you knew 
 him ! — and he can take Miss France on at the Pall 
 Mall Theatre, and no actress can want more than 
 that" 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 "The horses are being put in, Nevill," said 
 Munday, an hour later, coming up to the heroine 
 of the hour, who was sitting in the low fork of a 
 tree, looking gloomily down at the brown moor- 
 land water in front of her. " I am sent to look 
 for you. Why have you run away from us all ? " 
 
 She raised her face, with its reddened eyelids. 
 
 " I have not congratulated you yet," he said 
 gently. 
 
 " I wish — I wish I could drown myself f/iere ! " 
 she said passionate^) pointing to the water. 
 
 "Are you entering on your part — one of your 
 parts — already .'* " 
 
 "What part.?" 
 
 "The part of Ophelia.?" 
 
A HARD WOMAN 193 
 
 " Ah, I mean it," she said piteously. 
 
 " What ! Drown yourself now — on the very 
 threshold of fame — on the point of everything that 
 makes life worth having ! You should have heard 
 what Calder-Marston has been saying about you. 
 He is absolutely confident of your success. He is 
 going to undertake you — to train you — to make 
 you. Are you sorry that you are going to be a 
 great actress i* — or is it a case of la joie fait 
 peur?'' 
 
 She still looked straight out before her, and the 
 tears welled slowly into her eyes. He stooped 
 and dipped his handkerchief into the river. 
 
 " Come, dry your eyes. We must go — they will 
 all be waiting, don't you know } It will look so 
 odd . . . Come ! You don't want my wife to chaff 
 you, do you } " 
 
 She shuddered, took the proffered handkerchief, 
 and obediently dabbed her eyes with it. 
 
 " It won't matter — they will understand," he 
 murmured as they walked away. " Everybody is 
 delighted about it." 
 
 " Lydia's eyes ! Lydia's eyes ! She didn't like 
 me to recite. She is angry . . ." 
 
 ** Nonsense ! " said Munday gently. He looked 
 away, embarrassed ; while his companion, calling 
 up all the resources of the profession she was now 
 entering, composed her features and looked as if 
 
194 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 nothing had happened, as she joined the party 
 gathered in the porch of the inn, and quietly took 
 the seat left for her in the wagonette beside Mr. 
 Calder-Marston, who had eyes and ears for nobody 
 else. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " No, Ferdinand ... I was Jtot jealous of her 
 success — how could I be jealous of an actress ? 
 and if she is such a fool as to think so, and you to 
 believe her, I can't help it! . . . I didn't make 
 faces at her — although I think the whole per- 
 formance was very ill-judged, ill-timed, and un- 
 necessary ! And how could you get me into such 
 a hole about Calder-Marston ? Couldn't you see 
 it was he ? Haven't you seen his portrait in the 
 illustrated papers a hundred times ? You very 
 nearly let me make a fool of myself over it — 
 abusing the Pall Mall Theatre to him — and snub- 
 bing him ! How was I to know a dull, short-sighted 
 old gentleman like that was Calder-Marston ? . . . 
 Now let me go to bed. I'm tired to death . . . 
 Nevill hysterical, you say ? Oh, let her alone, she 
 will be all right in the morning ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 195 
 
 SCENE XVII 
 
 "Ferdinand ! It's a lovely afternoon, and I'm 
 going for a walk on the Scaur with Cossie ! " said 
 Mrs. Munday briskly, coming in with her hat on, 
 to the two men who were sitting smoking after 
 lunch. 
 
 " This is the first Tve heard of it ! " said Dave- 
 nant lazily. " With you anywhere, but isn't it 
 rather a grind .? It's so much nicer here, in the 
 balcony. We are sure to dislocate our ankles on 
 those rocks." 
 
 "Don't do that!" said Munday; "that would 
 be fatal — on the Scaur. What about the tide, 
 Lydia.?" 
 
 "Oh, the tide is all right," said Mrs. Munday 
 easily ; " not high till ten. We shall be back 
 hours before then. Come along, Cossie. No use 
 asking you, Ferdinand, is it } You are going to 
 the Archaeological Society meeting at Cramont, 
 with St. Jerome and Nevill. Adieu ! Enjoy 
 yourselves — if you can. Cossie and I will amuse 
 ourselves in our own quiet way. We shall have 
 
196 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 tea at Byrness, and be back to dinner at half-past 
 seven." 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 ** St. Jerome not being available, you condescend 
 to take me/' said Cossie sulkily. 
 
 " Nonsense ! Mr. St. Jerome was available — 
 everybody is always available — for me, but I pre- 
 ferred you because I want to talk about the novel. 
 We get on awfully slowly, don't we ? " 
 
 "We shall never finish it now," said the 
 collaborator gloomily. 
 
 "We must. I've thought of a good name for 
 it. I will tell you about it at tea." 
 
 * * * * * 
 "What do you think of the name of Gay 
 
 Gehenna for a society novel?" she proposed, as 
 
 they sat together in the tea-gardens on the links 
 
 at Byrness Bay. 
 
 " I believe I could think of a more " 
 
 " Do ! " said she dryly. " Mr. St. Jerome thinks 
 
 Gay Gehenna awfully good." 
 "Why did you tell him.?" 
 " Because I tell him everything — nearly." 
 " I can't tell you how I dislike Mr. St. Jerome." 
 "Yes, you can. You often do — it's a little 
 
 compliment you pay him." 
 
 " I shall never forget the way you threw me over 
 
 that day to travel down here with him." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 197 
 
 " My dear boy, what else could I do ? He saw 
 me. He would have seen you next moment. It 
 was the only thing to be done ! I only hope he 
 didn't notice you join me at York ! " 
 
 " If he had only seen the dreadful hotel you made 
 me go to, he wouldn't have envied me ! Oh, what 
 I suffered ! The " 
 
 " You needn't particularize ! What a Sybarite 
 you are ! I couldn't have had you in my hotel, 
 now could I .'* And it was your own idea coming 
 down like that ! I didn't propose it." 
 
 " Oh no, you didn't propose it ! You are much 
 too clever." 
 
 *' I don't know what you mean, Cossie .<*... 
 Go and pay for the tea, and tell the old woman 
 that her kettle didn't boil this afternoon ; and 
 that's a pity, for we shan't be coming here 
 again." 
 
 " What do you mean .? " he asked as he rejoined 
 her ; " are you so cross with me that you won't 
 come here again .^" 
 
 " Nonsense. But next week we must be going 
 home. Everybody is gone. The Bowens left 
 a fortnight ago, and Mrs. Malory goes to- 
 morrow. I hate the fag ends of things. I never 
 stay for the last of a party. And we have to pay 
 some visits first. The Bowens want us, and the 
 Nugents, and Lady Mauleverer. That will run to 
 
198 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 a fortnight, and then — what are you looking so 
 abject about ? " 
 
 *' I am sad because we are going home." 
 
 " * We * is good ! Are you going home too ? " 
 
 " I am going where you are going." 
 
 " So is Mr. St. Jerome." 
 
 " Don't tease me." 
 
 "Why not.?" 
 
 " Because I can't bear it." 
 
 ** People who live with me must learn to bear 
 it." 
 
 "You have no right to tease me," he said ex- 
 citedly. 
 
 " Why not ? You have the temerity to come 
 under my lash." 
 
 " But I am different." 
 
 " I shan't ask you in what way," she said care- 
 lessly, "though I know you are dying for me to. 
 Do go and gather me some of those sea-pinks ! " 
 
 " Presently." 
 
 " Now," said she, with a little stamp ; " you make 
 me tired." 
 
 " I don't care. I must tell you this, now. I am 
 different — because I feel differently — because I 
 care — because — " he put his hand to his throat, 
 " because I love you — I'm in love with you — isn't 
 it dreadful .-*,.. You are not listening to me ! 
 What are you thinking of > " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 199 
 
 " I am thinking how tiresome this is of you ! " 
 she said, sighing. 
 
 " Tiresome ? " 
 
 "Yes, as tiresome as measles in a house, or 
 bursting pipes in winter . . . You've spoilt it 
 all." 
 
 '' But didn't you think ? Didn't you see ? " 
 
 " I saw well enough that you were pleased to 
 fancy yourself in love with me — it's a little way 
 you men have — but I did think you would have 
 had the sense to hold your tongue and not spoil 
 everything." 
 
 " Then you knew how I felt ? You were only 
 playing with me ? " 
 
 " What else should I be doing ? You did not 
 expect me to be serious, did you } " 
 
 " / was serious." 
 
 '* Of course you were, Cossie. It would be such 
 an awfully bad compliment to me not to be — but 
 that's your affair. So long as you did not come 
 and tell me about it in this ridiculous way and 
 force me to snub you ! Well, there's an end of it ! 
 We were playing a game and you've shown your 
 hand. You have committed the unpardonable in- 
 discretion of all ! I thought you were too much of 
 a man — or boy — of the world ! " 
 
 "But, Lydia !" 
 
 " You are not to call me Lydia." 
 
ioo A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " What am I to do then ? " 
 
 " Look out an early train back to town to-morrow, 
 I should think." 
 
 " You bid me leave you ? " 
 
 "Please don't talk like a woman's novel! . . . 
 No, I don't bid you do anything. You must con- 
 sult your own inclinations. If you like to stay and 
 go on as usual, do. But you are never, never to 
 mention the subject to me again. I shall not do 
 so, you may be sure." 
 
 She pushed her sailor hat off her brows with an 
 impatient gesture, and looking out to the wide 
 expanse of sea before her, drew a long breath. 
 " Ah, it's too bad of you," she said, " to bring a 
 horrid atmosphere of morbid French novel into 
 this lovely open-air place. It's thoroughly out of 
 keeping. I am very much annoyed." 
 
 " You have no heart ! " 
 
 " You too ! " she turned round angrily. "If you 
 only knew how tired I am of hearing that ! . . . 
 What time is it 1 " 
 
 " I have left my watch at home." 
 
 " So have I. Let us go." 
 
 " Are you going to allow me to walk back with 
 you.?" 
 
 " Certainly. There's only one way home. I am 
 not going to compel you to scale the cliff. You 
 don't look fit to do it. Only remember you never 
 
A HARD WOMAN 201 
 
 mention my heart — or want of heart — to me 
 again ! " 
 
 They set out. All the colour had left Davenant's 
 face, he had grown suddenly flaccid, mentally and 
 physically. He picked his devious way carefully 
 among the fallen rocks and boulders, while Lydia, 
 like a white-winged fluttering bird, seemed to alight 
 on and abandon one slippery seaweed-covered 
 basis after another, with an unerring sureness of 
 poise that shamed him. 
 
 " You are wonderful ! " he said. 
 
 "Oh, I'm a woman," she said contemptuously, 
 " and women can do things." 
 
 " You are very, very angry with me } " he timidly 
 asked presently. 
 
 " I told you you were not to allude to that 
 subject again on any pretext whatever," said she 
 sharply. " I dare say I shall forget it, if you'll 
 only let me. Come along, it's getting late." 
 
 They walked along, past one deserted bay after 
 another. The great layer of sandstone in the 
 naked cliffs above them shone pink in the sunset, 
 the two piers of Swanbergh rose in the distance 
 from out the mile-long black slab of rock called 
 the Scaur along which this melancholy couple 
 fared in a constrained silence. Swanbergh itself 
 was hidden by the two jutting promontories of 
 basaltic rock, but the way lay straight before 
 
202 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 them, marked by ruts in the rock which countless 
 carts had furrowed in their quest of seaweed and 
 wreckage. 
 
 They passed the first point — the Red Ness, it 
 was called. Lydia gradually got in front of 
 Davenant ; his pace was not so good as hers. 
 " What is that dash of white by the next point .? " 
 he said suddenly. Lydia stopped short, drew a 
 tiny local calendar out of her pocket, and consulted 
 it. Davenant came close to her and scanned her 
 face anxiously. 
 
 " I made a mistake," she said ; " the tide is high 
 at seven, not ten ! " 
 
 The little book dropped into a pool at her feet. 
 Davenant's eyeglass fell from his eye with a jerk. 
 They both of them realized the possibility that 
 before they could reach the next headland — the 
 one that hid the town of Swanbergh from their 
 eyes — the waves whose leaping white crests had 
 attracted Davenant's attention would be there 
 before them. There was no going back, they were 
 exactly half-way between Byrness and Swanbergh, 
 and the cliffs that overshadowed them were un- 
 scalable between these points. 
 
 For a moment she was as pale as he was. Then, 
 " Come along, we must do it ! We have only to 
 get past the Ness, and then it's all right. The 
 water's very close, but it is not up yet . . . Look 
 
A HARD WOMAN 203 
 
 here, you must 'sprint/ as Fred says. No, I 
 don't want your arm, we shall get along best by 
 ourselves." 
 
 She began to walk along quickly, without look- 
 ing back, her eye fixed on the advancing white 
 line of waves in the distance. A smothered ex- 
 clamation from Davenant arrested her. She looked 
 over her shoulder. He was lagging. 
 
 '* What is it > What did you do > Don't slip 
 and sprain your ankle now, for God's sake ! " 
 
 " Can't we get up there somehow ^ " he asked 
 feebly, pointing to the sheer wall of cliff and its 
 moraine of loose stones at the bottom, stained 
 black by the water that covered them twice a day. 
 " Is it quite impossible ? " 
 
 "Ask yourself," she replied shortly. "No one 
 ever got up there, unless it was hanging to a rope 
 attached to a rescue party at the top. And at 
 spring-tides the water rises six feet up." 
 
 " Is it a spring-tide ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is. Don't talk, please, we want all our 
 breath now. Try not to be nervous. It will be 
 all right, once we get round the point. Only you 
 must walk quick — walk for your life — do you 
 hear ? " 
 
 "Oh, don't talk like that. Is there danger? 
 Shall we be drowned }" 
 
 " It will be your fault if we are ! " 
 
204 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 She plodded on sturdily. Davenant continued 
 to expostulate ; she hardly listened to him, until 
 he said something about going back, when she 
 turned on him furiously. 
 
 " Go back ? Why should we ? We are half-way 
 already." 
 
 " But I positively can't keep up at this rate. It's 
 killing me. I am not used to it. I am not as 
 strong as you. You've got such a splendid wind." 
 His panting increased and his pace slackened. 
 
 " Here, shall I give you my arm ? " she asked, 
 with bitter contempt. 
 
 "Oh, how hard you are!" he wailed. "Don't 
 you feel anything.? I can't see . . . my throat 
 hurts ... I think I have a weak heart." 
 
 " Better have none at all, like me ! " She seized 
 his arm roughly and dragged him along at a good 
 pace. The gurgle of the advancing tide as it 
 swirled into the deep pools and rejoiced the thirsty 
 anemones and starfish and shook the hanging sea- 
 weed, was of an agonizing significance. " Oh, 
 come on ! come on ! " she said, panting. " We shall 
 never do it, if you don't. Be a man ! Come ! Be 
 a man ! " she repeated mechanically. 
 
 " I can't — I can't," wailed Davenant. " Let me 
 stay here and die." 
 
 " Don't be a fool ! Am I going to have to 
 carry you .? " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 205 
 
 " Leave me ! Leave me ! " 
 
 " I wouldn't leave the meanest wretch in the 
 world so ! " said she. " Can't you — can't you 
 make an effort? I never thought you were like 
 this " 
 
 " It's no good, Lydia — Mrs. Munday " He 
 
 lurched, caught his foot in a cleft of the rock, and 
 came down heavily. 
 
 Lydia stopped too, and scanned the distant 
 goal. " I can't drag him there," she said to herself, 
 " and the water is up by now — would be up before 
 we got there. It is no good ! I could not even 
 get there alone." 
 
 She turned round to where Davenant lay prone. 
 
 " Here, have you sprained it ? No } Make an 
 effort then ! " 
 
 He struggled to his feet and looked round 
 wildly, first at the grey line of water a few yards 
 away, and then at the sheer wall of cliff, and 
 shuddered. 
 
 " I don't know what to do ! " said Mrs. Munday, 
 standing still beside him. She too looked round her 
 at empty sky and sea and cliff, but she did not 
 shudder. " There's a place further on — that I know 
 of — a ledge of rock that juts out," she said aloud. 
 " I have noticed it. It may be above high-water 
 mark. I believe it is. I have heard sailors 
 say there are one or two places that the tide 
 
2o6 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 doesn't cover. We will try for it ? . . . Take your 
 time ! " she said bitterly, turning to Davenant, 
 " there's no hurry now ! The water is up to the 
 Ness by this, but it won't come up here for 
 another hour, I expect. Here, take my arm. I 
 wish we had a rug or something — my jacket even." 
 
 " I've dropped it ! " 
 
 " What a pity ! I might have lent it to you. We 
 may have to sit up there till daylight — if we aren't 
 washed off before ! " 
 
 " Don't— don't ! " 
 
 "You had better look death in the face — it is 
 staring pretty hard at you ! . . . Here's the place ! 
 . . . Now, get up! . . . Put your foot there — on 
 the flat place — it looks dry, doesn't it, rather?" 
 she asked anxiously. 
 
 They established themselves on the flat top of 
 a boulder that lay just under the lee of the cliff 
 about five or six feet above the level of the rocky 
 floor. She tucked her feet under her, and sat like 
 a little Chinese bonze, staring straight in front of 
 her, and turning her shoulder to Davenant. Once 
 established, they sat in silence. There was nothing 
 to do but to wait, and hope that their refuge should 
 prove to be above high- water mark. 
 
 " I wish it was darker," murmured Cossie. " It 
 makes it worse to see the water coming nearer and 
 nearer. It's so dreadfully suggestive . . ." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 207 
 
 "Ah, you're a poet, you see. If I am to die I do 
 not care if it is in the dark or daylight. I should 
 like to choose my company, though." 
 
 " We are as near God by sea as by land," mut- 
 tered he, with the air of one repeating comfortable 
 texts. 
 
 " Don't cant because you are afraid ! " 
 " You said, * For God's sake ! ' twice just now ! " 
 " Did I ? I dare say ! I don't remember. But 
 say your prayers by all means. Don't mind me." 
 '* How can you chaff in such a moment .? " 
 " Please don't bother me 1 " she said irritably. 
 "Don't you see I'm not thinking in the least of 
 what I am saying ! I am trying to see if there are 
 any boats out. If we could hail them they would 
 take us off. . . . Perhaps Ferdinand will come ? 
 ... I told him we were going on the Scaur, if only 
 he remembers. Here, give me your handkerchief." 
 He produced his, and she knotted it to hers and 
 tied them both to her parasol. 
 
 " You managed to keep your parasol ? " he asked, 
 surprised. 
 
 " And my head too, luckily ! One of us had to." 
 She waved the improvised flag to and fro ener- 
 getically, though it was growing too dark for it to 
 be distinguishable in the general autumn greyness. 
 In her light dress she looked like a frail butterfly 
 dashed against the iron cliff, a delicate patch of 
 
2o8 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 pink on the vast wall of dark rock behind her. 
 The waves began to gurgle at the foot of their 
 pinnacle, and Davenant shivered. 
 
 "At any rate, it isn't cold!" she remarked 
 brutally. " If you only had your watch we might 
 at least know what to expect." 
 
 " Why ? How do you mean } " 
 
 "Because then we should be able to tell how 
 much higher the tide has to rise before it's high 
 water. Well, you haven't got it, so we must just 
 wait." 
 
 It grew darker and darker. There was a long 
 interval, when neither spoke. Davenant, in a help- 
 less, half-comatose condition, sat huddled limply 
 together and watched the acute profile Mrs. Mun- 
 day unalterably turned to him. His teeth chattered 
 loudly. 
 
 " I can't offer to lend you my coat," she said 
 scornfully, " because you have lost it." 
 
 " No, but you could " 
 
 « What ? " 
 
 " Not turn away from me so ! It seems so dread- 
 fully lonely ! " 
 
 " Oh, I'll look at you, if you like," she replied, 
 turning round and facing him with a cold, careless, 
 cynical stare. She did not even remove her eyes 
 or wince as a shower of heavy stones came rattling 
 down the cliff and fell with a hard metallic ring 
 
A HARD WOMAN 209 
 
 on the rocky floor below. The young man uttered 
 something between a cough and a whimper, and 
 held out a tentative hand — 
 
 " I wish — I wonder if — could you give me your 
 hand to hold — something human " 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it ! " She extended her 
 warm, strong, nervous hand — the other held the 
 flag — and his closed on it in a fervid pressure born 
 of cold and terror, that had no other human 
 emotion in it. 
 
 She left her hand in his, but her gaze became 
 insensibly averted from him. They sat there in 
 much the same position for an hour or more. The 
 dusk came on, and the waves lapped horribly at 
 the foot of their shelter. Now and then she laid 
 the improvised flag down and felt nervously round 
 the edge of the rock to see if the water had risen 
 to its level. Then it grew quite dark, and she laid 
 the useless signal entirely aside, and supported her 
 chin on her hand 
 
 " To die — with you ! " she said bitterly, under 
 her breath, looking at Davenant, who seemed 
 almost unconscious, and whose hand grew colder 
 and colder in hers. 
 
 Then there was another noise, as well as the 
 washing of water — the pounding of heavy sea- 
 
2IO A HARD WOMAN 
 
 boat oars in the rowlocks. A boat with three men 
 in it came round the point. 
 
 She shook the damp hand she held violently. 
 It fell away, inert. 
 
 " Wake up, and yell — if you can." She raised 
 her own voice and called loud and shrill. 
 
 " All right ! " came Ferdinand's voice across the 
 few yards of water. " Keep still ! Can you hold 
 on ? " 
 
 " All right ! " she called back. " No hurry ! " She 
 stood up, and untied the handkerchief from the 
 parasol. 
 
 itt ^ * * * 
 
 " I knew you would come ! " she said to her 
 husband, looking down on him as he stood in the 
 boat below. 
 
 " Jump — can you } " he said shortly. 
 
 She did jump, with the greatest precision gaug- 
 ing the place she was to attain in the boat. 
 
 " He can't," she said, designating the helpless 
 figure of Davenant, whom even the chance of 
 rescue had not revived. " You will have to fetch 
 him somehow." 
 
 They were both safely aboard in a few moments. 
 Davenant lay in the bottom of the boat, beyond 
 the two sailors, covered with rugs. Ferdinand was 
 
A HARD WOMAN 21 1 
 
 steering. His wife sat upright in the stern, her 
 parasol in her hand. 
 
 "What put it into your head to come, Ferdi- 
 nand ? " she asked carelessly. 
 
 " My dear, I always assume that if any one is 
 missing at Swanbergh, the Scaur is the place to 
 find them. So I got a boat and two sailors and 
 came." 
 
 " Clever of you ! Tell me — that ledge — would 
 it have been covered ? " 
 
 " Yes, it would." 
 
 She shivered a little, for the first time. 
 
 " I should have been drowned with thaty' point- 
 ing to Davenant. 
 
 " It would have been a little — grotesque, cer- 
 tainly," said her husband. 
 
 " I shall never speak to him again," she said, in a 
 voice that reached no further than his ear. 
 
 "Why.?'' 
 
 "Because he's what I hate most in a man — a 
 coward ! " 
 
212 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XVIII 
 
 ** Read it out ! " said the painter. " I think it 
 would inspire me." 
 
 " // was Fiammetta who had inhabited the 
 skies" read Nevill. " She came nearer . . . more 
 tenderly^ more earnestly . . . she held the dewy globe 
 in both hands. * Remember your prayer and mine^ 
 Giovanni! . . . Drink^ hut do not spill* . . . Sweet 
 as was the water^ sweet as was the serenity it gave 
 me . , . alas I that also which it moved away from 
 me was sweet ! Tell me, what was it that moved 
 away from Boccaccio ? " 
 
 " Remembrance," said Ferdinand. " Francesco 
 had prayed to forget. He has a dream in the 
 early rainy morning, when the rain drips from the 
 eaves, and a little bird chirps in the fig-tree. He 
 sees his dead mistress, bearing the chalice that 
 holds the waters of oblivion. At the bottom of 
 it lies their first kiss. Then she stoops, the broad 
 leaf of the lily in her hair (I suppose it was a kind 
 of arum) hides her brow and eyes, and the light 
 
A HARD WOMAN 213 
 
 of heaven shines through it — I haven't looked at 
 Landor for years, yet I remember the very words, 
 almost. I always wanted to paint that light of 
 heaven shining through the lily." 
 
 " And must I look all that on a cold morning in 
 January ? — and after your party last night, too ! " 
 
 " You can't help looking like it, whether you try 
 or not," he said admiringly. "You are the very 
 Fiammetta that Boccaccio knew — at least you are 
 my idea of her. And that dress is the very dress 
 she might have worn. A woman made it for me 
 once." 
 
 Nevill got up on the platform. " Where's my 
 globe ? " she said shortly. 
 
 He gave it her, and very diffidently altered the 
 position of a tress of hair on her forehead. Her 
 face grew solemn under his touch. 
 
 '' Don't look miserable," he said, stepping back. 
 " Remember you are a blessed angel in heaven, 
 and you come to poor earth-bound Ser Giovanni, 
 with a vision of his past life. He wishes to con- 
 sign all his worldly recollections to the bosom 
 of God, lest they trouble his repose among the 
 blessed. The joys will not return, nor yet the 
 sorrows. Is it not a strange mediaeval idea ? " 
 
 " I don't want to forget either," said she passion- 
 ately. " I don't mean to forget anything. The 
 remembrance of happiness is next best to happi- 
 
214 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 ness itself. I live in the past and in the future — 
 never in the present." 
 
 "I know you do, and you run a very poor chance 
 of being happy, I am afraid. You should take 
 short views, like Lydia. It's the only way ! It's 
 my way. After all, give an artist leave to paint, 
 plenty of light and a good model to work from, and 
 he asks for nothing else — or ought not to." 
 
 He looked at her ; the long, long look of a 
 painter taking in his subject. 
 
 *' I must have something round your neck — 
 something green — something in the shape of a 
 necklace. Lydia had one that would do exactly. 
 Where is she .-* " 
 
 " She is interviewing the cook. I think she — 
 Mrs. Parker was being very insolent, I thought." 
 
 " Why doesn't Lydia send the woman away at 
 once ? '* said he absently, looking at his model 
 through half-closed eyes. 
 
 " That's what I say, and then Lydia says I don't 
 understand housekeeping. It's true, I never knew 
 what it was to have a ' home ' in the conventional 
 sense of the word . . . Shall I go and ask her for 
 the necklace } " 
 
 " No, we will try to do without. I dare not risk 
 an avalanche of domesticity. But remind me to 
 get some arum lilies before you sit to me again." 
 
 Presently the door opened, and Mrs. Munday 
 
A HARD WOMAN 215 
 
 walked in. She had a rudimentary dress-bodice 
 dangling in one hand, and a small, almost decora- 
 tive, ink-stain on her chin. 
 
 " Brr ! " she said, " how your fire smokes, Ferdi- 
 nand ! You aren't minding it, I suppose. You 
 transcendental creatures seem to need a mere 
 mortal to look after you ! " She began to batter at 
 the coals with a poker. " When you've done sit- 
 ting, Nevill, will you come and help me to put 
 the sleeves in this bodice ? My dear girl, you 
 look pretty cheap ! Late hours don't suit you — 
 and what sort of a blue rag is it you've got on ? — 
 and what are you doing with that old gold-fish 
 globe > " 
 
 "Never mind, Lydia," said Munday, laughing. 
 "It would take too long to explain Boccaccio's 
 dream to you. Don't poke the fire, for heaven's 
 sake ! You are disturbing the mediaeval atmo- 
 sphere — filling the room with dust, I mean." 
 
 " Oh, keep up your crystal calm, by all means. 
 I won't interfere with it — I haven't time. I've got 
 to keep the house going and wrestle with wild 
 beasts in the kitchen — the cook more especially." 
 
 " What's the matter with the cook ? " 
 
 " The woman's insolent, that's all ! " 
 
 " Send her away then." 
 
 " Just like a man to say that ! I can't afford to 
 send her away just now." 
 
2i6 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " I don't think she's anything wonderful. The 
 supper last night was simply abominable." 
 
 " It wasn't meant to be a supper — light refresh- 
 ments." 
 
 " I won't give light refreshments in my house, 
 please, Lydia. And where did you get the cham- 
 pagne .? I could not drink it." 
 
 " Oh, you, you're a judge — but " 
 
 " I told you never to give less than seventy-two 
 shillings a dozen. This can't have been more than 
 thirty. It wasn't good enough." 
 
 " Oh, pooh ! Champagne's champagne." 
 
 "No, it won't do, Lydia. I'm not particularly 
 keen on giving parties, but if you ask people at all, 
 you must treat them properly, for the honour of 
 the house. I can't have my friends asked here 
 to eat cress-sandwiches, and drink champagne at 
 thirty shillings the dozen. And why are you 
 having rows with the cook .? What does she want .? " 
 
 " She wants her wages, as it happens," replied 
 his wife coolly. 
 
 "Well, give them to her, and send her away. 
 She is not good enough for us." 
 
 " Give her her wages because she clamours for 
 them ? No, indeed ! I refuse on principle. Those 
 who ask, shan't have ; those who don't, don't want 
 — eh, Nevill ? " said she, pinching the girl's cheek 
 with a patronizing air. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 217 
 
 " But if the wages are due ? " reiterated the 
 husband. 
 
 " That doesn't affect the question at all. Ferdi- 
 nand, you are too literal for anything ! Now let 
 me go. I am doing my accounts." 
 
 "Yes, I see, you've inked your little chin. By 
 the way, will you lend me that chrysoprase and 
 diamond necklace of yours ? It's so long since 
 you wore it, I've almost forgotten it, but I believe 
 it is just what I want." 
 
 " That rubbishy old thing ! " 
 
 " Rubbishy ! Well, I have a strong recollection 
 of having given i^i20 for it in Berlin once." 
 
 Mrs. Munday started. 
 
 " Did you, really ? Then the man cheated me." 
 
 " Cheated you > What man .? " 
 
 " Levi," said she quickly. " I went and had it 
 valued." 
 
 "A present.?" 
 
 " I like to know what my things are worth. 
 Well, it's no matter, for it wouldn't be of the 
 least use to you — would not go with that picture 
 a bit!" 
 
 " Do go and get it, dear, and permit me to judge 
 for myself." 
 
 " But I haven't the very slightest idea where 
 it is." 
 
 "You — the tidiest woman in London !" 
 
2i8 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "Well, ril go and see," said she unwillingly, 
 " but I know I shan't find it." 
 
 In five minutes she returned and said triumph- 
 antly — 
 
 " I've just remembered — Levi's mending it, and 
 they always keep things for months ! Now I'm 
 going. I cannot waste any more time." She came 
 forward and kissed him with a proprietary air. 
 " Please, Ferdinand, the cats are not to sit on the 
 chairs ! They scratch them all to pieces ! " 
 
 " Oh, let them — we can get new chair-covers." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Lydia, sweeping Jupiter off 
 the Empire couch with a vigorous backhander. 
 " Go down, Jupiter, and tell the others to go down 
 too. Jupiter ought to be shot — he's getting old 
 and blind and useless. I shall have to see about it ! 
 There, you needn't both writhe ! I was only joking. 
 This tiresome door of yours, Ferdinand ! I never 
 can open it quietly — or shut it either — without a 
 bang." 
 
 She did bang it. Munday looked at his model 
 ruefully. 
 
 •* Shall we try to go back to Boccaccio .-* " he said. 
 * * * * * 
 
 " I'm going to work like the devil ! " he announced 
 presently, " if you don't mind." 
 "No, I don't mind." 
 For three-quarters of an hour no word passed 
 
A HARD WOMAN 219 
 
 between them. The pose was a severe one, and 
 Nevill was not professional. By and by her head 
 drooped, the muscles of her neck grew sharp, and the 
 curves of her shoulders relaxed ; her eyes became 
 anxious in expression, and closed every now and 
 again, though she carefully chose for that process 
 the intervals between Munday's glances, which 
 grew rarer and rarer. He was working from his 
 own idea. Then came a time when she lost control 
 over her eyelids 
 
 " Mr. Munday," she said timidly. 
 
 " Oh— um " 
 
 " Are you getting on ? " 
 
 " Splendidly." 
 
 " Then I won't move." 
 
 " No, don't, please — if you love me ! You look 
 more like Fiammetta than ever — so frail — so pale ! 
 One moment ! " 
 
 " All right ! " she panted. 
 
 " Am I a selfish brute to you ? " he asked 
 absently. 
 
 "No, no — only I can't stay like this much 
 longer." 
 
 " Can't you ? " The creative frenzy was on him, 
 and he scarcely knew what she was saying. He 
 was aroused by the sharp click of the crystal bowl 
 against the estrade^ as it dropped from her hands, 
 and broke in atoms. 
 
2 20 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Good heavens ! What a brute I am ! " he 
 cried, and sprang forward just in time to catch 
 his victim as she slipped down, a senseless heap, 
 into his arms. 
 
 "Don't call Lydia," she muttered, as she lost 
 consciousness. 
 
 An artist of all men is least embarrassed when a 
 woman faints. The matter is of such frequent 
 occurrence in a studio. He laid her down flat ; he 
 dexterously flipped a few drops of cold water into 
 her ashen face, and while her eyes were still closed 
 he held a glass of pretty stiff brandy-and-water to 
 her lips. In a very few moments she opened her 
 beautiful eyes, and smiled in his face, as he bent 
 over her. 
 
 ** Ah, you look so happy," he said. " Can you 
 ever forgive me for being such a thoughtless 
 wretch ? " 
 
 " I thought I had died," she said, stretching out 
 her long arms. " I thought I was Fiammetta . . ." 
 
 *' Fiammetta who had inhabited the skies ? 
 Fiammetta the angel } And you came back ? " 
 
 " To you ! " she said dreamily, and her eyes 
 closed again. 
 
 " But, Fiammetta, you have spilt the waters of 
 forgetfulness — see ! " He pointed to the broken 
 fragments of Venetian glass on the floor, half 
 laughing. But she was desperately serious. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 221 
 
 " I don't want to forget — do you ? " 
 
 "No, no," he answered vaguely, stroking her 
 hand, as if she were a child, and looking away from 
 her into the tapestry hung depths of the big 
 studio. 
 
 " What are you thinking of ? " she asked pre- 
 sently, still in the same level, unintelligent, hyp- 
 notized tones. 
 
 " Of you," he replied, still not looking at her. 
 
 After a while she returned to a more normal 
 state ; her shoulders straightened, her eyes opened 
 and stayed open. She took her hand away from 
 his and looked round shivering. 
 
 " I must go home." 
 
 " Not yet, you can't . . . Drink some more." 
 
 " What .? " 
 
 " Brandy. I gave you some just now when you 
 were half unconscious." 
 
 " I ought to hate it — but I don't," she said, 
 sitting up. 
 
 " No, for you are weak and want it. Now, sit 
 down by the fire and don't think of anything yet 
 awhile, and then I will take you home. You are 
 quite sure you would not like me to fetch my 
 wife.?" 
 
 " Quite sure ! Oh, you are not going to call 
 her ? " she almost screamed, as he went towards 
 the door. 
 
222 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " No, no, I won't. I promise you ... I am 
 only going to fetch something to put over 
 you ! " 
 
 Her eyes followed him as he went to a press 
 and brought various garments forth. He hid the 
 pale brocade gown of the Italian donzella under 
 the purple silk mantle of the lady of the First 
 Empire, and gave her a large English eighteenth- 
 century muff to put her cold hands in. She smiled 
 the pretty apologetic smile of weakness as his deft 
 hands adjusted them. 
 
 " There, the centuries meet on you," he said, 
 laughing, and at her bidding went back to his easel. 
 
 " Do you want to talk t " he asked her presently. 
 
 " Yes, but I can't talk sensibly — my head swims. 
 You gave me too much." 
 
 " Not half what I have to give Peggy Merridew 
 when she feels faint, or says she does. It's all 
 right. You can recover here . . . Tell me, did 
 you enjoy yourself at our party last night 1 " 
 
 " Yes, only " 
 
 " Only what ? You had a good time. I saw 
 you. You monopolized the great Mr. Calder- 
 Marston." 
 
 " I know, I couldn't help it. Lydia said " 
 
 " Why should you not ? He only comes here 
 to see you. What was he talking about to you so 
 earnestly } " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 223 
 
 " He was talking business — about my — what he 
 is pleased to call my career." 
 
 " Yes, you are neglecting your career," said he 
 seriously. " You are not profiting by the impres- 
 sion you made on the greatest manager of the 
 century. Tell me what he said." 
 
 " He wants me to go down into the country " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "To go down to Hastings and do some stock 
 season with Mrs. Valpy — she's Marischal's sister, 
 you know, and runs a provincial company where 
 they train young actresses." 
 
 " Well, that's a very good way to begin. I am 
 glad he doesn't want you to begin by walking on 
 or being under-study at the Pall Mall Theatre. It 
 sounds smart, but it isn't half as good as a thorough 
 provincial training, I should say." 
 
 " Yes, but it means leaving — London ! " 
 
 "Well, have you any objection to leaving — 
 London ? " 
 
 " It is my life — London." 
 
 " I know, but you must follow where your fate 
 leads. It's the same for a woman as for a man, 
 one must work it out — wherever it falls." 
 
 " Shouldn't you miss me ? " she almost wailed. 
 
 " Miss you ? . . . miss you .-*..." he seized a 
 piece of rag and rubbed earnestly at a spot on 
 his picture. " Of course I should miss you — 
 
2 24 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 horribly. I might as well give up painting at 
 once." 
 
 " Oh — painting ! " she said. Then, after a pause, 
 " Well, that decides it, don't you see ? " 
 
 Ferdinand slid his brush into the sheaf he held, 
 and came and stood over her. 
 
 " My dear child ... I am going to talk to you 
 like a father. May I ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you feel like one," she said defiantly. 
 Her cheeks were red ; she was more like Fiam- 
 metta before her earthly career was closed, than 
 the pale angel with half-closed eyelids who had 
 stood on the platform half-an-hour ago. 
 
 " I do — at this moment. You have no father, 
 and I have your interests at heart as nearly as any 
 father could have. Nevill, I must not allow you 
 to throw over this chance, to let it slip as I see you 
 are doing. I did not realize it all till now. You must 
 not neglect your opportunity for the sake of helping 
 me. It would be too base of me to sacrifice your 
 whole future to a selfish desire to paint from you ! 
 I won't You have got such a chance as not one 
 actress in a thousand has. The biggest manager 
 in London takes an interest in you, and is willing to 
 undertake your training. He thinks it worth while. 
 Consider what that means. Your fortune is made. 
 You would have a position ; you might be famous 
 — you would be famous. Don't you care } " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 225 
 
 " Yes, but " 
 
 "You have always cared more for acting than 
 anything else in the world." 
 
 " That was when I was a child." 
 
 " But it is your vocation. Why, I heard you 
 myself at Swanbergh, you were wonderful ! I never 
 told you what I thought about you. You can't 
 throw such a gift away. You have no right to. 
 You are a working woman, you earn your living. 
 This is the way you can make it easiest. It will be 
 a hard training, at first, of course. You will make 
 nothing for a long time, but later on — it will be a 
 good deal more lucrative than sitting to me." 
 
 " More lucrative ! " She stared. " I don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 " I mean that what we give you is nothing to 
 what you would earn when you are once fairly 
 established as an actress ! " 
 
 " You give me ! — You give me nothing but 
 kindness ! " 
 
 He looked at her with a growing sternness that 
 was not meant for her. " I understand," he said 
 slowly, " that my wife pays you for your time in 
 sitting to me ^ Is it not so } Forgive me if I put 
 it baldly." 
 
 " Pays me for sitting to you .-* Good heavens ! '* 
 
 "What! She doesn't?" He made a step 
 
 forward 
 
 Q 
 
i26 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you think I would 
 let her pay me ? " 
 
 " I don't know what you would do — I only 
 know what I thought she did . . . what I made 
 her promise . . . She made me promise not to speak 
 of it to you — said it would hurt you if I talked of 
 it — she bade me leave it all to her, and I did. 
 Good God ! " 
 
 " Sit to you for money ! " she said, sobbing. 
 
 *' Of course ; what else ? " said he passionately. 
 " What else should you sit to me for ? For love ? " 
 He walked up and down the room without looking 
 at her. She raised her hands imploringly . . . 
 ***** 
 
 " I've got the sleeve in all right without you, 
 Nevill ! " exclaimed Mrs. Munday, entering noisily, 
 " and I've come to tell you two poets that lunch is 
 ready. What was that I heard about Love } 
 Have you got to that already } Really, my 
 dears — - ! " 
 
 " Be quiet, Lydia. Will you go and dress, Miss 
 France, and then I'll see you home." He dashed 
 the palette and sheaf of brushes down on an 
 embroidered Turkish table-cloth, and turned to 
 his wife. She carefully removed the brushes and 
 palette . . . 
 
 " Don't touch them ! " he said sharply. 
 
 " Why do you call her Miss France .'* Why isn't 
 
A HARD WOMAN 227 
 
 she going to stay to lunch when I ask her ? Why- 
 must you see her home ? " 
 
 " Because she is ill. I made her sit to me till 
 she fainted dead away. Before she comes back 
 will you please answer me a question ? Have you 
 never paid her for her sittings as we agreed you 
 should ? " 
 
 " Did she let that out ? Little sneak ! " 
 
 "No, Lydia, she isn't the sneak. Will you 
 explain } " 
 
 *' I decline to be bullied." 
 
 *' I am not bullying you. I only want to know. 
 There must be some explanation } Have I been 
 behaving like a cad without knowing it, all these 
 months } It looks like it — making a slave of her — 
 
 ordering her about as if Heavens, it is too 
 
 intolerable ! Can't you speak, Lydia ? " 
 
 He seized a chair, and dashed it against the 
 ground. 
 
 " I refuse to discuss the question with a maniac. 
 I never knew you had such a vile temper, 
 Ferdinand." 
 
 *' I beg your pardon . . . Perhaps you will be 
 good enough to tell me how you came to allow me 
 to remain under the impression that you were — 
 that you undertook to remunerate Miss France 
 for her services ? " 
 
 " Because she wouldn't hear of being paid, and 
 
228 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 you wouldn't have allowed her to sit for you unless 
 you had thought she was," said Lydia sturdily. 
 " It was a deadlock. What was I to do ? " 
 
 " So you lied to us both ! Well, there's no more 
 to be said." He turned away. 
 
 " No heroics, if you please, Ferdinand, and it 
 isn't the thing to tell a lady she lies ! " 
 
 " It isn't a thing for a lady to do. God ! Lydia, 
 if you were a man ! " 
 
 " Oh yes, I dare say you would knock me down. 
 Unfortunately I am a woman and your wife. And 
 what on earth are you making such a fuss about ? 
 You were wild to get this particular girl to sit to 
 you — you both had fine feelings — I'm not troubled 
 with that sort of thing, so I managed it for you ! 
 I think you ought to be grateful to me, instead of 
 storming at me like this." 
 
 " Oh, don't you see, Lydia — don't you see what 
 a damned thing it is you have been making me 
 do! I have treated the poor girl like a paid 
 model, neither more nor less. I have ordered her 
 about, and taken up her time, and kept her from 
 her profession. I thought I was at least helping 
 her to earn her living — that is, if I thought about 
 it at all ! But I have only thought of making use 
 of her. I have worked her — bullied her — made 
 her sit to me to-day until she fainted " 
 
 " You needn't be unhappy about that ! She had 
 
A HARD WOMAN 229 
 
 the privilege of fainting in your arms, that would 
 make up for anything ! . . . Don't look at me so, as if 
 you hated me! Perhaps you imagine Fm jealous 
 of a little gutter-girl like that ? " 
 
 " Oh hush, for God's sake, here she comes ! " 
 
 " Clothed and in her right mind ! Now, Ferdi- 
 nand, put her in a cab — you can pay it if you like 
 — and then come back to me ! Look, Nevill, 
 Ferdinand will put you in a cab and " 
 
 " No, thank you," said Nevill. She was no 
 longer pale, but flushed ; her lips were pressed 
 together, and she had assumed a kind of artificial 
 serenity and dignity. " I am perfectly well now. 
 I won't take Mr. Munday away from his work. 
 Don't come with me, Mr. Munday, I beg you." 
 
 Into her eyes she threw a power of command 
 which he could not but obey. She shook hands 
 and went out, closing the door quietly behind her, 
 leaving these two looking at each other. 
 
230 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XIX 
 
 In NevilVs rooms in Talgarth Mansions. Five 
 o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {rising from her chair). So you 
 see, Nevill, there it is ! I have explained it all to 
 you. You didn't see what dreadful inconvenience 
 you were putting us to ! Did you } And after we 
 have been so kind to you always ! I didn't say a 
 word to my husband, but directly I got your tragic 
 little letter I put everything aside, and came 
 here . . . These fearful stairs of yours are no 
 joke, I can tell you ... So you'll come and sit 
 to-morrow, as usual ? You must let us pay you — 
 a little, at any rate, for Ferdinand absolutely won't 
 have you sit on any other terms. He's so quixotic. 
 You must humour him. Good-bye! A demain. 
 Ferdinand doesn't in the least expect to see you. 
 How surprised he will be ! 
 
 Nevill. He won't see me. I'm very sorry, 
 Lydia, but I meant all I said. You must take me 
 at my word. I can't come to you any more. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 231 
 
 Mrs. Mu NB ay (ag-g-rieved). And here I've been 
 talking to you about it all for the last hour, telling 
 you how tiresome and wrong-headed you were, 
 and you didn't say anything ! 
 
 Nevill. You never gave me a chance. 
 
 Mrs. Munday (jplaintively). Oh, I never knew 
 any one so hard to persuade as you ! 
 
 Nevill. Will you leave off trying, dear Lydia } 
 It is very kind of you, but — I can't. I have made 
 all my arrangements, as I told you in my letter 
 this morning. I have accepted Mr. Calder-Mars- 
 ton's offer, I am going to put myself in his hands, 
 I have let my flat for the remainder of my lease, 
 and I am going down to Hastings the day after to- 
 morrow, to begin work with Mrs. Valpy's company 
 in earnest. I am an actress, not a model any more. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. And you actually mean to 
 throw us over entirely — leave Ferdinand in the 
 lurch with an unfinished picture on his hands } 
 
 Nevill. It is very nearly done. He can finish 
 it without me. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. No, he will never finish it. It 
 will be wasted. I know him. You don't. You 
 don't know the delicate sensitive artist nature. 
 Oh, I didn't think you could be so abominably 
 hard and selfish. For the sake of your wretched 
 pride, you are going to hurt him in what he cares 
 most about, his art 
 
232 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Nevill {earnestly). No — no — it isn't that, believe 
 me ! Sooner than injure him I would put my 
 pride aside and let him pay me. I would do 
 anything, only — only 
 
 Mrs. Monday. Only.? 
 
 Nevill. I can't come any more to your house 
 {stubbornly). 
 
 Mrs. Munday. But why then, why.? For 
 Ferdinand's sake — I don't ask you for mine — I 
 knew you never cared for me — but if you cared in 
 the very least for Ferdinand 
 
 Nevill {looking at lier). But I did— I do — and 
 the real reason . . . Oh, Lydia, don't you see ? 
 Don't make me tell you 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I'm not more obtuse than 
 most people, I suppose, but I confess I cannot see 
 why you should quarrel with your bread-and-butter 
 — at least, it will be your bread-and-butter — in 
 this ridiculous way. You have got some foolish 
 notion or other into your head, I imagine. 
 
 Nevill {sadly). Yes — very foolish. Don't 
 think I don't know it. I love your husband. 
 {Turns Iter face away.) 
 
 Mrs. Munday {coolly). Well, we all knew that. 
 You needn't start and look so ashamed ! 
 
 Nevill. I thought 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, you thought it was a dead 
 secret, I suppose.? My dear child, don't flatter 
 
A HARD WOMAN 233 
 
 yourself; anybody could see it with half an eye. 
 Do you suppose people didn't see your face light 
 up when Ferdinand spoke to you — didn't see you 
 follow his movements like a little dog with your 
 great eyes — didn't notice your voice alter when 
 you spoke to him ? It was as plain as a pikestaff. 
 People have often chaffed me about it. 
 
 Nevill {under her breath). And did he know t 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Not unless you told him. 
 Ferdinand never sees what is before his nose. 
 And I'll do him this justice, he's not a flirt; a 
 woman might make eyes at him all day, and he 
 would not even notice her. 
 
 Nevill. Well, then, Lydia — you see — {bitterly) 
 especially if I am the laughing-stock you say — I 
 could not very well go on coming to you. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Why not, since I've no ob- 
 jection t I should never make a fuss. Women 
 are perfectly at liberty to adore my husband as 
 much as they like. It amuses them, and doesn't 
 hurt me ! Oh, I'm modern enough for that. I 
 don't go in for poaching on other people's preserves 
 myself — I don't think it's good form — but as for 
 being jealous — why, I wouldn't raise a finger to 
 bring back a man who had left off caring for me ! 
 I'm much too proud. But I know Ferdinand is 
 mine — mine entirely. I could trust him with the 
 prettiest woman in London. He looks upon you 
 
234 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 as a mere child — a pretty child. You amuse him. 
 Come, don't be a sentimental goose, drop this 
 nonsense and come back to us. Besides {coaxingly\ 
 /can't do without you, you are so nice and useful 
 about the house. 
 
 Nevill. You will have to get another useful 
 maid. {Passionately^ Oh, don't you see, Lydia, — 
 I am a woman, I am not made of stone — I suffer. 
 You came in and kissed him the other day, in my 
 presence — you have a right to, of course — but have 
 you no heart — no feeling } Can't you understand 
 what it is } How can I go on living with you both 
 day after day, as I have practically done } I can't 
 bear it — it would be dreadful, it would be wrong ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday {sneering). Virtuous scruples ! 
 Come now, if I don't mind, I don't see why you 
 should. 
 
 Nevill. We ar^ different, I suppose. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {angry). Oh yes, different. Are 
 you trying to snub me .-* I have no doubt you fancy 
 Ferdinand would end by falling in love with you. 
 I've no doubt you think that you would make him 
 a far ^better wife than me — affinities and all that. 
 Outsiders always think they can manage things 
 better than the people whose own business it is. 
 
 Nevill. Oh, no — no — I only love him ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday {sharply). Do you wish to in- 
 sinuate that I don't } 
 
A HARD WOMAN 235 
 
 Nevill. I don't know whether you do or not, 
 I only know that I do, more sorrow for me. And 
 I have had to confess it to a hard woman like 
 you — and you want me to go on coming to your 
 house — to be in his company, day after day — to 
 watch you and him . . . You don't see anything 
 in it — you are happy and confident — you are in 
 the sun, and I am in the shade. I tell you I could 
 not bear it. I am jealous, even if you are not. 
 There ! I have said a dreadful thing. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Nonsense ! How can any one 
 be jealous of what isn't their own property ? 
 
 Nevill. I don't know. I only know it drives 
 me mad. I can't sleep, I can't think — I 
 
 Mrs. Munday (looking at her curiously). I 
 really think love with you morbid women is a kind 
 of mania. 
 
 Nevill {passionately). Love ! Don't talk of 
 love ! You know nothing about it ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday {putting up her eye-glass). That's 
 a funny thing to say to a married woman ! A 
 little impertinent, isn't it 1 But you don't mind 
 what you say. You do say the most extraordinary 
 things. You quite shock me sometimes. Indeed, 
 I am quite surprised that, with your theories, you 
 see any harm in being in love with a married man ? 
 {Sneering.) 
 
 Nevill. What do you mean .? 
 
236 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday {coldly). I mean that I wonder 
 you miss an opportunity of putting your very 
 peculiar views on the relations of the sexes into 
 practice. 
 
 Nevill. Lydia, how dare you — how dare you 
 insult me so ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. There you go ! Dare ! Insult ! 
 All in a moment ! Just like you advanced women ! 
 Go about spouting the most fearful opinions about 
 love and marriage and all that, and the moment 
 one so much as suggests that they should have 
 some of the courage of their opinions — pouf ! they 
 flare up, and are ready to slay you, in their righteous 
 indignation ! 
 
 Nevill. Lydia — please go — before I 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Nonsense, my dear, calm your- 
 self! I tell you I hadn't the least idea of insulting 
 you, I was only stating a curious fact . . . You'll 
 be better in a moment. (^Putting up her pince-nez^ 
 It's odd, but I couldn't get into a rage like that — 
 no, not if you paid me ! It was extremely effective, 
 let me tell you, dear. I believe you will be an 
 actress after all ! . . . Well, won't you speak } . . . 
 Look here — we're two sensible women of the 
 world, are we going to quarrel like the Queens in 
 Siegfridf I never quarrel on principle. I defy 
 anybody to quarrel with me — even a little spit-fire 
 like you. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 237 
 
 Nevill {slowly). No, we are not going to 
 quarrel, we are going to say good-bye. We are 
 not going to meet again — never, never! Why 
 should we ? I have nothing in common with 
 you 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh no, not with me — only 
 with my husband. 
 
 Nevill. I shall never see your husband again. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Until next time ! Oh, I know it ! 
 
 Nevill. Never as long as I live. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You will hope to meet in 
 another and better world ! Oh, I'm up to all that 
 jargon. {Rising from her chair ^ 
 
 Nevill {very low). I am afraid there isn't 
 another world . . . but if there is ... I think a 
 man will belong to the woman who loved him best 
 on earth. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {putting on her veil before the 
 glass on the mantel-piece) Oh, leave the poor fellow 
 some choice ! Say to the woman he loves best ! 
 And I suppose you have no pretensions to that } 
 . . . No, don't, I can tie it . . . Good-bye ! I 
 think we had better part, as you say — much better. 
 It would never do. You're too much for me ; I 
 couldn't stand much of this sort of thing ! . . . 
 I can open the door myself, thank you ! Good- 
 night ! [Exit.] 
 
238 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XX 
 
 MUNDAY {to the servant). Tell Mrs. Munday 
 that the carnage is here, and that I am ready. {He 
 strolls round the vestibule with his eyeglass raised, 
 pausing in front of a water-colour drawing^ Is 
 that mine } By Jove, it is ! Now where did 
 Lydia fish that out from t I thought I had sent it 
 to the devil long ago. The " Jason and Medea " 
 used to be there ! That's gone too ! . . . I don't 
 know how it is, but it all has a very undressed 
 look! 
 
 Mrs. Munday {coming slowly down the stairs). 
 You ready first, Ferdinand ? What a wonder ! 
 ( To the servant^ Celestine, don't forget to turn out 
 the light in my room — and post those letters on 
 my table — and if that woman from Madame Cromer 
 
 calls again, say {She mumbles something as 
 
 her cloak is being put over her shoulders^ 
 
 Munday {fretfully). I don't like that dress at 
 all, Lydia. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. What's wrong with it t 
 
A HARD WOMAN 239 
 
 Monday. For one thing, it doesn't fit. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {plaintively). Please don't. I 
 made it myself — most of it. 
 
 Munday {laughing). Oh, well then, I dare say- 
 it's a triumph. Since when have you taken to 
 making your own dresses ? What has become of 
 the great, the indispensable Cromer ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't fuss me, Ferdinand, I'm 
 sure I don't know. {Getting into the carriage?) 
 Now mind, Celeste, you give that message 
 properly. Come along, we're late. Eighty-nine, 
 Brook Street ! . . . Take my dress over your 
 knee, Ferdinand, will you } It crushes so. 
 {A pause') 
 
 Munday {suddenly). Where have you put the 
 "Jason and Medea" that used to hang under the 
 eagle mirror in the hall 1 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, isn't it there t 
 
 Munday. No, it isn't, and that water-colour 
 you have put in its place won't do. It isn't good 
 enough. It is quite an early attempt. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, nonsense, there isn't a pin 
 to choose between them ! You haven't improved 
 that much ! {Laughing) Don't be so finicky. 
 
 Munday. Put back the " Jason," anyway ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. It's spoilt. Mary washed it 
 with Sapolio. 
 
 Munday {decidedly). Mary must go. 
 
240 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Munday. If you please, Ferdinand, not 
 to interfere. It doesn't suit me that she should go 
 just now. 
 
 Munday. I must speak to her, at any rate. 
 
 Mrs. Monday. What's the good ? She would 
 deny it. Leave her to me. She's an excellent 
 servant — only a little clumsy, now and then. 
 
 Munday. A little clumsy .!* Are you aware 
 that that girl has broken to the value of about a 
 hundred pounds in the last month ? And as for 
 the " Jason," it was not much, but I could have 
 easily got two hundred pounds for it. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I know, but 
 
 Munday. It's absurd to keep on a girl like 
 that. We can't afford it. There won't be a thing 
 left in the house if she stays. The walls are full of 
 gaps. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {roughly). All the better ! The 
 house is simply choked with old Wardour Street 
 rubbish as it is. It's far too full for comfort, or 
 taste, and it's too large a house to be comfortable 
 in. ( Yawning?) I'm tired of it all — entertaining a 
 parcel of silly, useless people, who only come to us 
 for what they can get, and would throw us over the 
 moment we weren't able to do anything for them. 
 Society is a fraud — I am beginning to think it isn't 
 worth the trouble one takes for it. I wish we 
 could go away — go into a smaller house 
 
A HARD WOMAN 241 
 
 MuNDAY {wearily). I shouldn't mind, I am 
 sure. Let us go and live in the country. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {sharply, looking at him). Or 
 the seaside ? Now I wonder what you would say 
 to Hastings ? 
 
 MUNDAY. Are you being arch ? I fail to see — 
 
 Mrs. Monday {impressively). I saw Nevill 
 to-day. 
 
 Munday. Have you ? Well ? 
 
 Mrs. Monday. She won't come back to us. 
 
 Monday. I didn't for one moment suppose she 
 would {hopelessly). What is she going to do .? 
 
 Mrs. Monday. What she said in her letter. 
 She has let her flat and is going down to Hastings 
 to-morrow to join that provincial company run by 
 Marischal's sister, you know — and never means to 
 see any of us any more. After all, I think it's for 
 the best, Ferdinand. Fm sorry for your picture, 
 but I, personally, shan't miss the little termagant ; 
 I was getting very tired of her airs, though she was 
 an awfully good hand at trimming a bonnet. She 
 was too highly strung for me — always at high 
 pressure — v/e should have been continually having 
 scenes. She's one of those women who love to live 
 in hot water. And as for the picture — though I 
 made great capital out of it in my talk with her — 
 the picture does not matter, for I am sure that 
 besotted old Verschoyle will buy it as it stands. 
 
242 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 MUNDAY. He won't get the chance. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Don't drivel, Ferdinand ! 
 Though, I must say, I thought the idea that she 
 was ruining your picture would fetch her, if 
 anything would; but no, she was as obstinate 
 as a mule, and talked such heroics and senti- 
 mental nonsense that I lost all patience and went 
 off without even asking her address ... I made 
 no doubt you had it. She is sure to have told 
 you. 
 
 Munday. I do not know it. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I believe you, Ferdinand. 
 
 Munday {dryly). Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes, you are like George 
 Washington, and can't tell a lie — not even a society 
 lie properly. It's as good as a play to watch 
 you blundering down the path of falsehood. And 
 Nevill — I never saw anybody so ingenuous ! What 
 do you think is her reason for not coming any more t 
 It isn't the money bother — oh no ! — she would 
 condone that ! It's your fatal charms ! She 
 solemnly announced to me that she was head over 
 ears in love with you — with you, Ferdinand ! 
 Think of that ! Don't you feel proud ? But you 
 mustn't let her know that you know, or she'd have 
 a fit, I verily believe. 
 
 Munday {slowly). And you come and tell me ! 
 A woman trusts her secret to you — and you have 
 
A HARD WOMAN 243 
 
 the intolerable baseness to betray it to the very 
 person she 
 
 Mrs. Munday {a little cowed). I thought it 
 would amuse you ! 
 
 Munday {turning away from Iter). You have 
 an odd idea of amusement ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday {sulkily). You are always 
 lecturing me now, Ferdinand ! . . . And I don't 
 know about betray ! I dare wager there wasn't 
 a soul in London didn't know her secret, as you 
 call it, except yourself. She gave it away all along 
 the line. She was a different person when you 
 were in the room — her voice altered — she watched 
 you — she hung on your words — everybody noticed 
 it ! She was a perfect laughing-stock in our set ! 
 
 Munday. That's not true! I mean, I never 
 noticed anything of the kind ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Of course you didn't. I said 
 except you. Did you ever notice things .? But I 
 did, at any rate, and because I said nothing all the 
 time, she tried to make out that I was too cold- 
 blooded to be jealous. There's your modern 
 woman for you ! And when she confessed her love 
 to me, with an air of mystery, in a low voice, as if 
 the very air mustn't hear it, why, I nearly laughed 
 in her face ! To tell me as news what I had known 
 all along, I who am perfectly aware of the state of 
 her affections ! 
 
244 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Monday (in a hard voice). And did you form 
 any opinion as to mine ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. What do you mean? 
 
 MUNDAY {watchiyig her). Supposing I, on my 
 side, told you that I cared for her ? 
 
 Mrs. Monday. Of course, you did care for 
 her. You were very fond of her, as a child — and a 
 very silly one too. I told her so. There's nothing 
 mean about me. 
 
 Monday {pertinaciotisly). But if I were to 
 admit that I cared for her in the way that you say 
 she cared for me — would it shock you ? 
 
 Mrs. Monday {lightly). I shouldn't believe 
 you. I should know you were only saying it to 
 spite me. Here we are! Mind my dress! {To 
 the coachman^ Back at eleven ! 
 
A HARD WOMAN 245 
 
 SCENE XXI 
 
 "And how have you been all this time, Mr. 
 St. Jerome .'' " cried Mrs. Munday, sinking into a 
 chair near me, after she had shaken hands with 
 Mrs. Maple-Durham, who had asked us all to a 
 so-called literary luncheon, one frigid day in early 
 spring. " Let me see ! Is it six months that you 
 have been abroad ? It is a year since I've seen 
 you, at any rate." 
 
 " I am afraid it is. And I didn't expect to 
 meet you here, of all places." 
 
 That was true. I am an editor — a litterateur — 
 and I make it my business to know every one 
 not worth knowing. But although Mrs. Maple- 
 Durham and her somewhat squalid and improper 
 wrongs have been recently righted and glorified 
 by a pronounced literary success, I was rather 
 surprised to see Lydia Munday and her husband at 
 the house of such a mammon of unrighteousness. 
 
 But Mrs. Munday soon explained it. " Poor 
 old Mrs. Maple-Durham ! " she said. " Isn't it 
 
246 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 nice of me to come to her parties ? But literature 
 is becoming quite a passport to society, now-a-days, 
 and it doesn't do to ignore it. I wonder who she 
 has asked to-day in the way of h'ons ? Here comes 
 Cossie Davenant at any rate ! .... It is such fun 
 cutting him. He does object so, poor wretch ! " 
 
 " You're as happy and careless as ever, I see ! 
 Isn't it rather a dangerous amusement, cutting 
 people ? " 
 
 " I've cut him for months," she said gaily. " I've 
 got quite into the way of it. He was no good." 
 
 " No good socially, you mean ? I always told 
 you so." 
 
 " Ah, but I thought it was because you " 
 
 She left the sentence unfinished, but I knew it ran 
 *' were jealous." 
 
 " There's always something wrong about a man 
 when his own set fights shy of him," I continued. 
 
 " I dare say," said she carelessly. " I have 
 nothing to do with him now. Oh dear, here 
 comes my fate ! " as Mrs. Maple-Durham came 
 up and introduced a young journalist of my 
 acquaintance, whose name is Cave. He wears the 
 wrong sort of collar, but is otherwise a very decent 
 sort of fellow, and no fool. I told Mrs. Munday so. 
 
 " All right ! I'll suffer him gladly." 
 
 " Are you taking up literature ^" I asked. There 
 surely was some motive for this unusual tolerance. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 247 
 
 She did not answer, but looked sphinx-like. 
 It was her chosen attitude when she had either 
 nothing to say, or did not choose to say it. Then 
 we went in to luncheon. I sat on Mrs. Munday's 
 other hand. 
 
 One never knows what trivial incident will give 
 the impetus to conversation on these occasions. 
 In this case it was the salt. Mrs. Bowen, on my 
 right hand, spilt it. " Superstition — so picturesque, 
 you know" — happened to be her latest craze, and 
 with great ceremony she threw a large portion 
 three times over her shoulder and well into the 
 butler's eyes. Mrs. Munday curled her nostril — 
 she is one of the few women I know who can 
 accomplish that highly dramatic feat. 
 
 " Have you ever had your fortune told, May ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Dozens of times ! " said Mrs. Bowen triumph- 
 antly. " And every time it was different. I 
 couldn't have borne it unless. Did you ever go 
 in for it, dear Mrs. Maple-Durham } " she asked of 
 the novelist. 
 
 " I feared to, dear Mrs. Bowen," replied that 
 lady portentously. " My hand frightens me some- 
 times. The lines seem so fateful.'* 
 
 " There's a simpler reason than that ! " whis- 
 pered Lydia to me. *' Imagine that hand lying 
 on a cushion, like a trussed chicken ! " 
 
248 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " I don't believe in palmistry," Mrs. Bowen's 
 husband, in his gruff transatlantic tones, was 
 declaring. " I've got three illnesses and one 
 shipwreck overdue, and I'm fifty-six now." 
 
 " Oh, you've still time enough," said his wife 
 pertly. " Lydia, did you interview that woman — 
 at the Vansittarts' — in a grotto — dressed like a 
 witch ? No, I suppose you were too sensible." 
 
 " I went in — oh yes ! '* said Mrs. Munday. " I 
 don't pretend to be superior to my fellow-beings. 
 I wanted to know when I should commit my first 
 murder, and how many husbands I should have. 
 I didn't tell her I had one already — I like sor- 
 ceresses to have a free hand, so I left her alone to 
 form her own conclusions first. She tugged at my 
 thumb and nearly dislocated the joint, and an- 
 nounced I was born to rule ! So I was ! Then 
 she said I had a false friend with blonde hair. 
 I wonder if that was you. May ? No, I don't 
 think you positively hate me, and as for your 
 
 hair ! Then there was a fair man who meant 
 
 me some harm " She looked round the table 
 
 and met Davenant's eyes. " I can't believe any one 
 wants to hurt me ! . . . Well, that's about all — 
 except a legacy, and they always throw that in 
 for half-a-crown. Oh, and I'm to be married 
 twice, and my second husband is to be a — I've 
 forgotten what ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 249 
 
 " And which is your present husband, may I 
 ask ? " inquired the journalist in felicitously. But 
 Lydia took no umbrage. She had evidently made 
 up her mind, as she said, to suffer him gladly. 
 
 " Guess ! " she said. 
 
 " That young man opposite you > " 
 
 " Now why should you pick him out ? " 
 
 " Because he is glowering at you so." 
 
 " Quite wrong ! That's Cossie Davenant, the 
 eldest disappointment of Lord Fulham." 
 
 *' And why is he glowering at you .? " 
 
 " Because I won't know him." 
 
 " Why won't you > " 
 
 " Because he's a dreadful little cad. Nobody 
 will know him. I've dropped him." 
 
 " Take care, he hears you ! " I whispered. 
 
 " Let him. Who cares ? " she returned sharply. 
 "Little weasel!" 
 
 " Weasels have a nasty bite. He'll never forgive 
 you for calling him a cad, you had far better have 
 said scoundrel at once — cad is unforgivable." 
 
 " Well, he is a cad, and a scoundrel too," she 
 said, still in the same reckless tones. " He's been 
 cheating at cards, I'm told — that's the latest !" 
 
 "You brought him up badly. I remember 
 when one could not go to your house without 
 treading on Cossie Davenant." 
 
 " Ah, perhaps you will come oftener now ^ " said 
 
250 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 she slyly. " And what a fuss you make about it ! 
 Isn't a woman to be allowed her little caprices ? 
 I took him up, and I put him down, that's all. 
 He began to bore me. I decline to be bored. 
 Life's too short. May Bowen runs him now. 
 She's welcome to my leavings, I'm sure . . . 
 Mrs. Maple-Durham has got a strange set of 
 people together, I must say. If this is literature ! 
 .... Who did you say this little man next me 
 was, and where does he get his fearful and 
 wonderful accent from t " 
 
 " From Manchester, I presume — he was on the 
 Adventurer for five years." 
 
 " Oh ! — " She half turned. 
 
 " You had better ask him how dear Fred is ? " 
 
 " Don't mention my brother, please, to oblige 
 me. I have a reason." She turned quite round, 
 and smiled invitingly on Cave, whom she had 
 hitherto somewhat neglected. 
 
 " Mr. St. Jerome tells me you come from Man- 
 chester, Mr. " she glanced at the card that lay 
 
 in front of his plate — " Cave." 
 
 " And that sets you, who are a Londoner, quite 
 against me ? " 
 
 " Not at all ! Quite the contrary. I adore 
 talent, and I have always understood that Man- 
 chester people were so much quicker and so much 
 more up-to-date than Londoners." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 251 
 
 " The Wise men came from the West, in short ? " 
 
 " That's very neat, Mr. Cave. Yes, I'm a poor 
 benighted Londoner. Tell me all about Man- 
 chester." 
 
 " Have you friends there ? " 
 
 *' No," with an irrepressible little shudder. 
 
 " Or investments ? " 
 
 Mrs. Munday smiled very sweetly. " I see you 
 come from the West. Tell me about Manchester 
 people . . . Have you any types ? " 
 
 " Plenty." 
 
 " I seem to remember hearing about a Mr. — a 
 Mr. Fred Barker, I think it was." 
 
 " Bounder ! " said Cave decidedly. 
 
 "Ah, I dare say," replied Lydia calmly. **A 
 friend of mine had some money or something in 
 a thing Mr. Fred Barker had to do with " 
 
 "Sorry for him — the friend I mean. Hope he 
 kept Barker to book } What was the thing } " 
 
 " I'm sure I forget. I was told, of course, but 
 I've forgotten. I don't know anything about 
 business, you know." 
 
 Cave gave her a comprehensive glance. 
 
 " Who else was in besides Fred Barker } " 
 
 "There was — I think — a Mr. Cohen," she said 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 I must confess that at this point the conversa- 
 tion began to interest me so deeply, that I was 
 
252 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 only able to spare half my intelligence to Mrs. 
 Bowen. It was enough for her, luckily. 
 
 " By Jove ! " said Cave, " Cohen > Ben Cohen, I 
 suppose } Well, Barker's a bounder — but Cohen ! 
 You're sure you don't know any of these people ? " 
 he asked suspiciously. 
 
 " Oh no, only by name and reputation." 
 
 " Reputation ! They haven't an ounce of that 
 between them. What was the name of the thing ? 
 It wasn't the * Wallaby Proprietary Diggings, 
 Limited,* by any chance, was it .? " 
 
 " Yes, it was." 
 
 " I fancy," he said, looking at her keenly, " that 
 you know more about this than I do." 
 
 " Tell me about it," said Lydia, quite eagerly. 
 " Will it pay, and how much, and when ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, it will pay — that is, it will pay the 
 original syndicate, as soon as they have got the 
 shares on the market." 
 
 " But the shareholders " 
 
 " You know," said Cave, beginning to exercise 
 some discretion, " I am not a business man myself 
 — only a journalist — I had no business to talk to 
 you about the ' Wallaby ' scheme. It's no affair 
 of mine, thank God ! Have some sweets ? " 
 
 Mrs. Munday declined the sweets almost rudely. 
 She made several futile attempts to take the con- 
 versation back to Manchester, but Cave declined 
 
A HARD WOMAN 253 
 
 to be drawn further. She sulked and said very 
 little more till Mrs. Maple-Durham gave the signal 
 for the ladies' departure. 
 
 " Shall I find you in your office to-morrow .? " 
 she whispered to me, as she rose. " I want to 
 consult you about something most important." 
 I signified yes, and the women began to file out. 
 Cossie Davenant was nearest the door and held it 
 open for them to pass. I watched him as his old 
 friend Mrs. Munday went by him without a word 
 or a glance. I declare it was intolerable ! He 
 appeared to feel it so, for he pursed up his lips, 
 and his eyelids fluttered in a kind of spasm of 
 rage. He looked very dangerous as he closed the 
 door and resumed his seat, and drank down a 
 glass of sherry. 
 
 " I saved that woman's life once, and now she 
 won't look at me ! " he remarked — I heard him 
 distinctly — to the man next him. 
 
 Young Cave drew near me. " Who is the little 
 devil with the fluffy hair I have been talking to ? " 
 he asked. " I didn't catch her name." 
 
 " I wonder why you call her a little devil ? " I 
 asked curiously. " She is, as you say, extremely 
 flufl-y " 
 
 " She may be extremely fluffy, but she is a little 
 devil for all that. My dear fellow, look at the 
 malignant line of the mouth — I dare say people 
 
2 54 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 call it a pretty mouth — at the insolent sweep of 
 the cheek, and those clumsy inexpressive little 
 hands ! I know as well as if I were told that that 
 woman is as hard as nails, absolutely inaltruistic, 
 and a Philistine into the bargain. I see her in 
 her domestic relations — I see her smacking her 
 children " 
 
 " She hasn't got any ! " 
 
 "Of course she hasn't any! Doesn't deserve 
 'em, doesn't want 'em/' 
 
 " My dear fellow, even a journalist can't see all 
 this at a, glance ! " 
 
 " See it ! I feel it ! I hate her already. I have 
 a natural antipathy to her. If I were cast on a 
 desert island with her I should eat all the mussels 
 myself and pelt her with the shells." 
 
 " I'm not so sure. I .think it would be the other 
 way." 
 
 " Is she a virago ? " 
 
 " A modern woman, that's all." 
 
 " Oh, I see. A Philistine doubled with a New 
 Woman. Fearful combination ! And the husband 
 — women of this kind get husbands by accident — 
 which is he ? " 
 
 " That tall dark man opposite." 
 
 Cave looked at Ferdinand closely. " The artistic 
 temperament plainly — poor devil — and married to 
 her ! Well, I'd as soon take a bunch of stinging 
 
A HARD WOMAN 255 
 
 nettles to my bosom, a bundle of flails, a hair 
 shirt " 
 
 " Come, Cave, I think you got on very well with 
 Mrs. Munday — on the whole. She didn't snub 
 you much — at least not much for her ! I thought 
 she was most dulcet." 
 
 " Only when she found I hailed from Man- 
 chester. What is her interest in Manchester ? 
 She pumped me assiduously about Fred Barker, 
 and old Cohen " 
 
 ** Her brother's partner. She was a Miss Barker." 
 
 " Good God ! Not Barker — not the sister of that 
 little swindling beast Fred Barker?" 
 
 " He's her brother." 
 
 " Then, by Jove, I've done it ! Called him a 
 bounder to his own sister." 
 
 " Never mind. She has no illusions about Fred, 
 I fancy." 
 
 " And I told her the truth about the * Wallaby 
 Proprietary Diggings.' Half the truth, at any rate, 
 and half the truth's worse than no dividend to the 
 unfortunate shareholders ! I am afraid she has 
 shares in it ! " 
 
 " Not such a fool ! Lydia Munday is the cleverest 
 woman in London — in her way — and that's her 
 way. She was brought up on finance." 
 
256 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XXII 
 
 " Lady to see you, sir 1 " said the office-boy, 
 thrusting a card under my nose, as I sat at my 
 desk, in a certain office in Fleet Street, where I 
 spend a considerable portion of my time editing 
 an unimportant monthly. 
 
 " Mrs. Ferdinand Munday ? Show her in." I 
 pushed away the sheets I was passing, removed a 
 sheaf of contemporary journals from a chair, and 
 prepared to receive the lady from the West. 
 
 She rustled in, a little out of breath, a good 
 deal over-dressed. The office-boy was greatly 
 impressed, as she shook hands with me, and sank 
 into the chair I offered her, with a queenly air. 
 
 " I am interrupting you," she remarked serenely. 
 " Are you very busy ? " 
 
 "Rather. We go to press to-morrow. But I 
 always have time for you." 
 
 " What a shockingly untidy place ! " she ob- 
 served with conviction. " How stuffy it is, and 
 how it smells of gas stove, and how dreadfully 
 
A HARD WOMAN 257 
 
 your windows want cleaning! I never was in a 
 newspaper office before." 
 
 She sat and plumed herself, as a bird its ruffled 
 feathers, a brilliant anomaly in this dusky den of 
 literature. 
 
 " I'd no idea the East End was like this. People 
 really shouldn't live in it. The dirt — the dust — 
 the fuss and noise — oh, I had such a business to 
 get here ! I came in three omnibuses : the last put 
 me down at Chancery Lane. Then I couldn't find 
 two hundred and fifty-one. I asked everybody — I 
 'asked a p'liceman,' — I asked a sandwich man 
 who was sitting on his sandwich — and he told 
 me . . . Oh, I have had such adventures ! There 
 was quite a crowd near Temple Bar. I took to 
 my elbows and used them freely. They're very 
 pointed. An old lady turned round to me quite 
 crossly : ' Call yourself a lady ? ' she said." 
 
 " And do you ? " 
 
 " You mean I shouldn't have pushed ! Oh, we're 
 all alike in a crowd. It's each for himself, and the 
 policeman for us all ! . . . Then in Fetter Lane 
 there was a man fainting ! I always inquire into 
 these things, I attended ambulance classes once. 
 The idiots had spread him out quite flat. Now, I 
 know you must have your head propped up quite 
 two inches, so as to prevent the blood running to 
 the head and causing a clot there — and I told the 
 
258 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 policeman so. He was quite young and pink. 
 'Don't need you to come a-telling me! 'he said. 
 * / know what to do.' Awfully cheeky, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " And what did you say ? " 
 
 " Cheeked him back, of course ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Munday condescending to bandy words 
 with the inferior classes ! " 
 
 " When I'm in Fleet Street I do as Fleet Street 
 does ! I looked into his pink face and said, * You 
 are very young to know so much ! ' How the 
 crowd cheered ! " 
 
 " You had him there ! " 
 
 "Hadn't I.?" she laughed cordially. "Well, 
 don't let me waste any more time in chattering — " 
 She produced a brown-paper parcel of the fatally 
 familiar cylindrical shape so well known and 
 dreaded of editors, and announced portentously, 
 " I've written a novel." 
 
 As I did not immediately reply — 
 
 " A novel is really much easier to write than I 
 thought, at first. It's the one I began in collabora- 
 tion with Cossie Davenant. But he was no good 
 at all. I could do nothing till I got rid of him." 
 
 " Is that why you quarrelled with him ? " 
 
 " Quarrelled ! I never quarrel. He bored me, 
 so I simply dropped him, that's all! . . . Well, 
 about this great work here .? I'm not going to 
 sham modest. I knozv it's good," 
 
A HARD WOMAN 259 
 
 " It's sure to be," I said nervously. I had a 
 vision of a long perspective of years, during which 
 I should be cut sedulously by Lydia Munday in 
 consequence of the view I might be obliged to 
 take of her novel. " What is it about ? " 
 
 " People ! " she said triumphantly. 
 
 " Yes, of course, people " 
 
 " People I have known. I've got them all in — 
 as like as I could make them. It's a roman a clef 
 — the kind that's so fashionable now. It's the only 
 thing that goes down, they say. I don't mind telling 
 you, Mr. St. Jerome, but the fact is I don't care a 
 bit for fame — only to make money. You know I 
 was always material-minded." She smiled a rather 
 sickly smile. " So I took the quickest and easiest 
 way of making it. All the other novels I read 
 seem awful rot to me, and yet I suppose the idiots 
 that write them get paid for them, so why shouldn't 
 I write a really good one, and " 
 
 " And knock the town } No reason in the 
 world ! " I murmured mechanically. 
 
 " Here it is," she went on. " I ran it off at white 
 heat, you know. I dare say the punctuation is a 
 little hazy, but I can correct all that in the proof. 
 I didn't stop to think much — ^just took a pen, and 
 let it run on — these things should be struck off 
 at once, you know — the whole point of a society 
 novel is in its freshness — dash — go — vigour " 
 
26o A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Certainly, spontaneity is a great merit." 
 
 " And of course, you see, it comes easy to me. 
 I am /;/ society — in * the know,' as they say — these 
 little people in the suburbs are always pining to 
 hear anything personal about 7ts" 
 
 " It is scandalous, then ? " 
 
 "Isn't it just? A regular exposal I just 
 crammed in personalities — everything I could think 
 of — it will make people sit up ! I call it Gay 
 Ge/ienna. Don't ,you remember my telling you 
 about it at Swanbergh once, and you said you 
 would help me ? " 
 
 " What do you want me to do with it ? " I asked 
 helplessly. 
 
 " Do something — publish it — bring it out serially 
 in your paper." 
 
 " But I must read it first." 
 
 " Oh, must you ? " said she, in- a disappointed 
 tone. 
 
 "Must, I'm afraid. Leave it, and I will look 
 at it." 
 
 " I couldn't think of leaving it ! I dare not, it 
 might get lost." 
 
 " I will be most careful." 
 
 " Couldn't you just glance over it while I am 
 here } Do ! I won't disturb you. I'll read a paper. 
 You can see in a moment that it's all right." 
 
 " I might want to consult my assistant-editor." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 261 
 
 "Your Mr. 'Jorkins/" said she, smiling mali- 
 ciously. " Oh, I know that dodge. Introduce me 
 to 'Jorkins,' and I'll engage to get him on my 
 side." 
 
 She undid the parcel and handed a very neat 
 manuscript to me, tied up with — no, it is really 
 unnecessary to mention it. 
 
 " It's very short," I said, scenting a means of 
 escape. 
 
 "Short and sweet. I couldn't scrape up any 
 more. Read some. Read it out ! " she said com- 
 placently, as I turned over the leaves. 
 
 I read : " Olivia Vereker takes a long look at 
 herself in the glass. — They all do ! — What does 
 she see there ? A pale slip of a girl— slight, slim, 
 not precisely beautiful — the nose a shade too retrouss^e 
 — tip-tilted like the petal of a flowery I looked 
 across at Mrs. Munday. " T/ie lips are a little too 
 fully but the eyes are large and luminous^ and the 
 zuhole — the whole what ? — instinct with that nameless 
 something, that intangible harmony, that mysterious 
 power of subjugation over the other sex, which is 
 called charm. Not bad that, for a plain woman ! " 
 
 " She's not a plain woman. Go on." 
 
 '' And yet, tJiat small flower-like face, that delicate 
 rounded chin, hide a decision of character, a knoiv- 
 ledgc of the worlds a power of will-concentration — 
 Is Olivia quite a nice girl } " 
 
262 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " She is a modern woman/' said Lydia. •' Go 
 on. Her character will develop itself presently." 
 
 " * Have my oysters y Lord Philipl cried Olivia " 
 
 •* I've made them nearly all lords," she murmured 
 complacently ; " it pleases the public, and gives 
 me no trouble." 
 
 I continued : " — handing him her plateful of the 
 succulent ^/V^/z'^. 7 Succulent bivalve! Oh, Mrs. 
 Monday ! " 
 
 "What's wrong with the phrase.^ I'm sure I've 
 seen it before ! " 
 
 " So have I. Why don't you bring in nutritive 
 esculent .'' " 
 
 "Oh, do go on." 
 
 I read on, the next page, and a few more, in 
 silence, then — "Pouf!" I said, half to myself. 
 " This will never do." 
 
 " Haven't I made it scandalous enough } " she 
 inquired anxiously. 
 
 " Scandalous enough ? Why, it makes even my 
 hardened hair stand on end ! Listen ! Sir Arthur 
 Clinton had heeji implicated in one of the most 
 notorious scandals of the day. Royalty went into 
 tJie witness-box — And here, again ! When Lady 
 Susan^s husband seemed about to end his political 
 career by dying of apoplexy — Apoplexy a lingering 
 disease! — she dutifidly returned to his side, and 
 took care that the piblic knew it. She attended his 
 
A HARD WOMAN 263 
 
 last moments^ and even managed to get up a little 
 illness with watching at his bedside. The papers^ 
 however^ soon threzu ridicule on that^ and prophesied 
 her re-marriage — You mean Lady Putney, who 
 married again a month after Lord Putney died of 
 consumption ? She was an Italian." 
 
 " Yes ; but I made her a Frenchwoman." 
 
 " And Mrs. Maple-Durham and her morganatic 
 marriages } " 
 
 " Oh, she's fair game. Besides, I call her Mrs. 
 Durham — to put people off the scent a little." 
 
 "You remind me of the ungrammatical ostrich 
 we used to hear about at school, who sticks its 
 head in the sand, thereby hoping to conceal the 
 ostrich." 
 
 " I don't want particularly to hide the ostrich. 
 That's the whole point of a roman a clef. People 
 like to know who is intended." 
 
 " Yes, but they like a little touch of ambiguity 
 now and then, as a tribute to their intelligence. 
 You must leave something to the imagination of 
 the public." 
 
 "The public are mostly fools ! " quoted Lydia. 
 
 " Yes, but quite clever enough to see that you 
 have put in Putney and his wife, and George St. 
 Aubyn, and as for your domestic circle, I should 
 say that after the publication of this work you 
 would be a stranger to it, and that your Aunt 
 
264 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Elspeth would certainly cut you out of her 
 will." 
 
 She now looked a little grave. 
 
 "Putting in yourself is all right — nobody can 
 bring you into court for that. Olivia seems charm- 
 ing. And Lancelot — he is not precisely the image 
 of Ferdinand, is he ? He reminds me rather of 
 your early friend Wilkinson." 
 
 " On revie7tt toujours a ses premiers ainoiirsl^ 
 quoted Lydia in execrable French, " at least for 
 purposes of fiction. You don't expect me to air 
 my domestic grievances in my novel, do you } I 
 don't go about abusing my husband, like May 
 Bowen. I know his faults, and I make the best 
 of them — and I don't know what right you 
 have to assume that / am Olivia," she said, 
 simpering. 
 
 I went on reading : " Wlien you — I beg pardon 
 — wJien Olivia refuses him he leaves the room with 
 a frightful oath ! What do you mean by a frightful 
 oath?" 
 
 " Damn ! " said she, with great distinctness. 
 
 ** Take care ; you'll corrupt the type-writer in 
 the next room ! Is that all ? You must not be 
 so hard on Lancelot. And then, this incident 
 between the intoxicated organ-grinder and your 
 heroine; it's quite impossible." 
 
 " I can only tell you it really happened." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 265 
 
 "Then you should put 'Fact' in the margin, 
 like the novelists of the last generation." 
 
 " You don't like realism ? — but I always think 
 one should draw as much as possible from real 
 life." 
 
 " Yes, but the fusing power of the imagination, 
 you know, plays a very important part in a perfect 
 novel ; it digests, it assimilates, it modifies. Novels 
 are not slices of life taken raw. You put a novel 
 together as you mix a pudding or compose a 
 picture, with due regard to proportion, harmony, 
 perspective, and all that kind of thing." 
 
 "What's the good of telling me all this," she 
 broke in impatiently, "when I have finished the 
 novel ? Of course, I could alter it a little — a very 
 little " 
 
 " You would have to alter it a good deal before 
 a publisher would look at it, my dear friend. It 
 would ruin any publisher to publish it as it stands." 
 
 " But if it was altered ? " 
 
 " There would be nothing left." 
 
 " Do you really mean that it's too strong ? " 
 
 I thankfully took the line she suggested. 
 " Exactly ! Believe me, it would never, never do. 
 The public would not stand such plain speaking 
 for a moment. It would simply ruin you socially. 
 These personalities, these cruel epigrams, these 
 mordant sarcasms, are like boomerangs, and return 
 
266 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 on the sender. The best features in Gay Gehenna 
 are effective, but decidedly unpopular." 
 
 " And you really are narrow enough to consider 
 that genius ought to be hampered by these absurd 
 personal considerations, Mr. St. Jerome? I can 
 hardly believe it of you. I thought you were more 
 modern. Surely genius should be allowed a free 
 hand } Is it impossible to resist Mrs. Grundy ^ " 
 
 " Mrs. Grundy, yes — but not the law of libel ! 
 Take my word for it, dear Mrs. Munday, you can 
 do nothing with this work. It is extraordinarily 
 smart, but absolutely impossible." 
 
 " Could it be dramatized } " said she faintly. 
 
 " And then published as a prohibited play .'* 
 Could you make it improper enough.^" I said, 
 laughing. 
 
 " No ! " answered Mrs. Munday vehemently. 
 ' No, I will not i stoop . . . Good-bye, Mr. St. 
 Jerome ! I suppose you know what will sell, but 
 I don't think I can be bothered to write the milk- 
 and-water stuff that would suit you. I can't make 
 myself mediocre to please any one. No, I give it 
 up ! It's too disheartening ! The moment a thing 
 is really good and strong you say it won't do for 
 the public. Poor public ! " 
 
 She was dreadfully cross. The office-boy was 
 sent for to tie up Gay Gehenna, a cab was called, she 
 gave me a cold, unfriendly little hand to shake, 
 
A HARD WOMAN 267 
 
 and left me without actually looking me in the 
 face. 
 
 I suppose I shall not be asked to dine in Pont 
 Street for many a long day. What a pity it is 
 when one's friends have literary aspirations, and 
 insist on flinging down the apple of discord before 
 one in the shape of a novel ! And it gives them 
 away so ! The cleverest woman in London, when 
 she puts pen to paper, risks the loss of that repu- 
 tation. I repented my bold statement to Cave 
 yesterday. I could now almost believe Mrs. 
 Munday capable of taking shares in a bubble 
 company. 
 
268 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XXIII 
 
 Mk. and Mrs. Munday sitting silent at the dinner- 
 table, before a meagre dessert consisting of one 
 apple^ two bananas, and a plate of biscnits. The 
 servant has just left the room, 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Ferdinand, you have eaten 
 nothing ! 
 
 Munday. Haven't I, dear } 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Hardly anything. Aren't you 
 hungry } 
 
 Munday. No, dear. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Does your head ache } 
 
 Munday. Yes, dear. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {dashitig down her napkin). 
 Ferdinand, that's the third time you have said 
 " No, dear ! " in the last minute, and in the same 
 tone of voice too ! If you are going to be ill, I 
 wish to goodness you would say so ! It's enough 
 to wear one's nerves all to fiddle-strings to have 
 you sitting opposite one, looking like a Christian 
 
A HARD WOMAN 269 
 
 martyr, watching the wild beast that's going to 
 eat him. 
 
 MuNDAY. That's a fine image! {Gently) I 
 don't have a headache on purpose, dear. Talk to 
 me of something else — don't remind me of it ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes, I believe it's half fancy. 
 A man always makes such a row if he has any- 
 thing the matter with him. These headaches of 
 yours can be nothing to mine ! Poor Nevill used 
 to cure them by laying her hands on my forehead. 
 Dear me, poor Nevill ! I wonder where she is } 
 I wish to goodness she was back again, I know — 
 if only as a companion for you. She might come 
 and love you as much as she liked if she would 
 only divert some of your blue devils from me. 
 You are getting quite awful, Ferdinand ! It isn't 
 fair to your wife — it isn't really ! 
 
 Munday {bitterly). If I had known that I was 
 going to be an invalid like this, I should never 
 have presumed to marry you. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {calmly). No, I suppose you 
 wouldn't have ! . . . and you are actually making 
 me as bad as yourself. Pvc got nerves to-night — 
 I who never knew what a nerve was till I married 
 you ! I'm as neurotic as the best of them now. 
 It's living in this house full of tapestries, and 
 gloomy greeny pictures of impossible ghastly people, 
 with an artistic fanatic . . . Oh, I could scream ! 
 
270 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 MUNDAV. What has happened ? I never knew 
 you like this before, Lydia. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Nothing has happened — only 
 it's a perfectly odious and hateful world ; and I'm 
 tired of struggling with it. 
 
 MUNDAY. So am I. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I wish I were dead, I know. 
 
 Munday. I know I do. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Of course, you take care to 
 be as depressing as you can — ^just when I want 
 cheering up ! 
 
 Munday. Let us be cheerful ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. How can we be cheerful, I ask 
 you, when you are cross, and I am ill .? We simply 
 feed each other's melancholy. We can't help it. 
 Only the French know how to live, and have 
 the sense to avoid this continual honeymoon. 
 Here you and I sit, looking at each other across a 
 long empty dinner-table, with nothing on it to eat 
 to speak of, night after night, just because we 
 happen to be married to each other ! 
 
 Munday. Does all this mean that you wish we 
 weren't ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I did not say anything of the 
 kind. Don't take me up so, Ferdinand ! I've no 
 doubt we get along as well as most married people 
 do after three years of married life. I'm not com- 
 plaining. I don't expect to be happier than other 
 
A HARD WOMAN 271 
 
 people. One rubs along somehow. Marriage is 
 marriage, and one has to make the best of it. 
 
 MuNDAY. It seems a pitiful view to take of 
 the 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, don't begin to rhapsodize 
 about ''the most sacred of all ties," etc. I never 
 went in for that sort of thing. Marriage is a very 
 decent institution if it is worked properly, but it 
 isn't rampant happiness, and you'll find that's the 
 view most people take of it when once they come 
 to years of discretion — been married a few years, I 
 mean. 
 
 Munday {bitterly). It depends on — shall I say 
 the husband ? I'm afraid I'm not much good to 
 you ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You save me from being Miss 
 Barker at twenty-nine ! 
 
 Munday. The man in the street could have 
 done that— if that's all ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. A less noble animal than you, 
 you mean t {Suddenly.) Perhaps I don't make 
 yoiL happy .? Oh, say so, say so ! It only wanted 
 that. 
 
 Munday. Don't trail your coat, Lydia; I am 
 not complaining of you. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {laughing). Oh no, not you ; 
 you always take care to be in the right. You 
 are like the man in the French Revolution, who 
 
2 72 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 always carried his head as if it were the Saint 
 Sacrement I 
 
 Monday. Yes, I wish I could take my head off 
 and lay it aside sometimes, when it aches. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. What a perfectly disgusting 
 joke ! You must have a horrid mind, Ferdinand. 
 Quite morbid ! And just now too, when I'm so 
 depressed ! {Pushing her glass across.) Give me 
 some more claret. I'll take brandy if you don't 
 mind. (Crossing Jier hands at the back of her head,) 
 Oh dear, dear, life's too dreary for anything! If 
 only something would happen — anything ! I don't 
 expect anything nice. 
 
 Munday (Jwpelessly). There is nothing nice 
 could happen. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. There's the Academy election 
 to-night ! 
 
 Munday. Well, what of it t 
 
 Mrs. Munday. They might elect you ! 
 
 Munday. So they might have any time these 
 four years. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Ah, but to-night— I've heard 
 — Mr. Verschoyle was here to-day. He's very 
 much in with them. He says there's a strong 
 party for you. 
 
 Munday. It's the first I've heard of it. I 
 never make up to any of them. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. No, you snub them. It's just 
 
A HARD WOMAN 273 
 
 as effective. Ferdinand, I happen to know that 
 Verschoyle is going to the Arts club to-night. He 
 promised me that he would come straight from 
 there with the news, if there was any. He might 
 be here any moment ! . . . Ferdinand, don't you 
 care ? 
 
 MuNDAY. Not much. I've done very well 
 without the R.A. so far. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Ah, but you've been selling 
 very badly lately. 
 
 Munday. I sell as much as I paint. 
 Mrs. Munday. And that's hardly anything. 
 You are getting dreadfully slack. It's awful ! You 
 have been months over that " Fiordelisa." 
 
 Munday {stubbornly). Yes, and shall be months 
 more. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Ferdinand, to please me, you 
 might bustle up, and get it sent home and paid 
 for ! I'm sick of the sight of it in the studio. You 
 do work so slowly. 
 
 Munday. Don't drive a willing horse, Lydia. 
 Mrs. Munday. I know you don't care how hard 
 you work — you're always at it — but somehow, you 
 have no judgment ! You spend months worrying 
 away at pictures that / consider finished. You 
 never know when to leave off. It's a sign of 
 decadence. Don't put so much work into things. 
 Just rattle them off the way other artists do. Then 
 
274 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 they'll look fresh. Heavens ! I wish you were an 
 impressionist. And you don't even work when 
 you are in the studio. I have watched you. Many 
 a time I've peeped in without your knowing, and 
 seen you mooning away your time with your 
 forehead against the easel 
 
 MUNDAY {savagely), I'll lock the studio door in 
 future. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Nonsense! It's just a bad 
 habit you've got into. You only want brisking up 
 a little, and you know if you were in the Academy 
 you could command better prices. Everybody 
 says so. And it would do you good every way. 
 What you want is a fillip. 
 
 Munday {getting up and striding about). I want 
 no fillip — I only want to be let alone, and paint 
 my pictures my own way. Please don't worry me. 
 I allow you to live your own life ; allow me to live 
 mine. I was an artist before I married you, and 
 an artist I mean to be 
 
 Mrs. Munday. You have never been anything 
 else. I don't flatter myself you ever put me first. 
 
 Munday {hotly). On the contrary, I have given 
 up everything to you, except my artistic independ- 
 ence. You want that now as well. You want 
 to make my life not worth having ! You want to 
 degrade me, to drive me to do things against 
 my conscience, for the sake of a wretched hundred 
 
A HARD WO]VL\N 275 
 
 pounds or so extra. I won't do it ! I will 7iot 
 paint pot-boilers to please you, or spoil my work 
 by sending it out before it is finished ! You are 
 doing your best to ruin me — my art — and you 
 shall not do it ! You shall not, I say ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Heavens, Ferdinand, what a 
 tornado ! And all because I suggested your pulling 
 yourself together a little. Money happens to be a 
 little tight with us just now. Of course yoit don't 
 notice — you simply hand over your cheques to me 
 as you get them — and very few at that ! I have 
 all the bother and worry 
 
 Munday. It was your own wish. You under- 
 took to run the house. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {determinedly). Very well, I'll 
 run it. Do sit down and subside . . . Talking of 
 money, Lucy was here to-day, and she says Aunt 
 Elspeth thinks she's going to die. 
 
 Munday. Poor old lady ! 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Oh, it's not the first time. 
 But she really is rather shaky. Seventy-eight. But 
 Lucy was always an alarmist. However, I mean 
 to look her up and see that she doesn't play the 
 fool. I was always her favourite niece, and it 
 wouldn't do to let her money slip through our 
 fingers. 
 
 Munday. We don't want her money. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Everybody wants money, and 
 
276 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 intrigues for it, and these old women want looking 
 after. They are apt to be got at by interested 
 people. Lucy says she gave five hundred to a 
 Home for Inebriates the other day. Isn't it 
 shameful } 
 
 MUNDAV. She has a perfect right to do as she 
 likes with her own money. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Not when she has relations. 
 It properly belongs to them. However, I managed 
 to get her to give me that old miniature she had of 
 grandfather, set in diamonds, the other day. It's 
 worth quite eighty-five pounds. 
 
 MuNDAV. But, my dear Lydia, ought ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. She was going to leave it me 
 in her will, anyhow. It was just as well to make 
 sure. I'll get as much out of her as I can that way. 
 She's such a dangerous old woman, you know — 
 always altering her will. One never knows where 
 to have her. She's got the idea into her head now. 
 I must look after her. Lucy and I saw the last, 
 when she gave us her keys once to get something 
 out. She's left everything equally to me and Lucy 
 and Fred and Toosie. 
 
 Munday. She ought to leave extra to Toosie, 
 and set her up as an heiress. She's so plain, poor 
 little thing ! You and Lucy have run away with 
 all the looks of the family. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I don't consider Lucy pretty ! 
 
A HARD WOMAN 277 
 
 But, Ferdinand, don't you call it excessively unfair 
 to leave it so equally ? Fred is sure to drop it in 
 some ridiculous scheme or other — Fred is an 
 idiot, a speculator — and as for Lucy, she has only 
 to lift her little finger and she can marry Woffle, 
 who is sure to be Lord Chancellor, while I — oh, 
 well, Fin out of it, I've no chance — I'm married and 
 done for. 
 
 MUNDAY {bitterly). You mean that you are not 
 an improving property. You have sunk your 
 value in marrying an artist — a pauper 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I didn't mean that quite . . . 
 Though, Ferdinand, you really don't make the best 
 of things, you are so slipshod about money matters. 
 Has Wigan ever sent his cheque for the difference 
 in that exchange .^ If he did, you never gave it 
 me } 
 
 Munday. It was only thirteen pounds. I paid 
 the water rate with it. You were out, and they 
 seemed to be clamouring for it. 
 
 Mrs. Munday {relieved). Oh, did you.? 
 That's all right . . . And when is Vyvyan going to 
 pay you for " The Knight of the Bloody Sleave " } 
 
 Munday. When he likes. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Hurry him up ! 
 
 Munday. I shall let him take his time. He 
 let me take mine. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. I shall write to him. 
 
278 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 MUNDAY. Lydia, I forbid you ! 
 
 Mrs. Monday. A modern husband forbid a 
 modern wife anything ! 
 
 MUNDAY. I forbid you to interfere in my affairs. 
 
 MRvS. Munday. Ferdinand, what a bear you 
 are growing ! Well, I'll give him a fortnight more. 
 And Verschoyle — aren't you going to let him have 
 Nevill ? 
 
 Munday {starting). You mean the "Fiammetta".? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes. 
 
 Munday. It isn't finished. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Finish it. 
 
 Munday. I can't without the model I began it 
 from. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Yes, you can — you can do it 
 very well without that girl. It's a mere fad of 
 yours. All models are interchangeable. And if 
 you did get her back, I don't suppose she would 
 be in the least like what she was. Two years 
 scrambling about the Continent in the company of 
 heaven knows who, would age and draggle any 
 woman. She'll have lost her Madonna face by 
 this time. I don't suppose you'd know her if you 
 saw her. 
 
 Munday {roughly). What do you mean ? In 
 the company of whom ? 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, she was last seen at 
 Vienna with that clever old villain Festugeres. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 279 
 
 MUNDAY. She's his pupil. 
 
 Mrs. Munday. Well, we all know what that 
 means ! Look at her with you ! A girl like that 
 — ready to fall into the arms of the first man that 
 made love to her. If she was respectable — {A hell 
 rings) — she would let people know where she is. 
 You may take my word for it, she has gone to the 
 bad long ago. 
 
 Munday [white with passion), Lydia ! Good 
 God — you are my wife — or 
 
 Enter Mr. VERSCHOYLEy followed dj/ an Italian 
 model. 
 
 Verschoyle. My dear fellow ! I congratulate 
 you ! Fork out your guinea for this gentleman 
 here {pointi7ig- to the model). He started first — 
 but didn't know his way here. You're elected to 
 the Academy by a majority of twenty votes. 
 
 Munday. D n the Academy! 
 
28o A HARD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE XXIV 
 
 One afternoon, a fortnight after this conversa- 
 tion, Mrs. Munday rang the bell of 56, Bedford 
 Square, and waited on the steps in a brown study. 
 The old butler, who had known her since she was 
 a child, opened the door. His countenance ex- 
 hibited a certain solemnity. Mrs. Munday thrust 
 a brown-paper package into his hand without 
 looking at him, saying decidedly, " Tell the cook 
 to boil it thoroughly — for two hours at least — 
 before she sends it up to my aunt." 
 
 "Ma'am " he began, but she pushed past 
 
 him, and past the frightened little buttony boy 
 who stood dubiously in the passage. 
 
 " Where's Miss Lucy ? Oh, here you are ! " as 
 her sister came forward from an inner room. 
 
 " Come in here," said Lucy, with an air of quiet 
 authority. 
 
 " Why not the study ? " 
 
 " There are — people there." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 281 
 
 " Well, I don't mind people. What people ? 
 Look here, I've brought some food — a special 
 preparation for Aunt Elspeth. You none of you 
 seem to have the least idea of taking care of her. 
 I'm going up to her presently, but I wanted to see 
 you first, Lucy. Look here, you can have that 
 green chine silk dress of mine for two pounds — 
 dirt cheap, simply ! " 
 
 " I don't want it — now," replied Lucy, looking at 
 her coldly. 
 
 "Don't be a fool! It's a bargain, I tell you. 
 You can let it out in the waist, and shorten the 
 skirt, and it will just carry you nicely through the 
 summer . . . How fearfully dark it is here ! Pull 
 up the blinds, can't you } " 
 
 " Don't," said Lucy, arresting her. 
 
 " Oh, very well, I don't care. I can only stay a 
 few minutes. I'm dead tired. I've been out since 
 ten o'clock seeing people in the City. But I wasn't 
 going to disappoint Aunt Elspeth. She would 
 think me so unkind. She's expecting me, isn't 
 she.?" 
 
 " Hardly," said Lucy. 
 
 " Oh yes, she is, for I told her I'd come to-day 
 some time, and I always keep my word. We are 
 going to do business together." 
 
 " Are you ? " said Lucy. 
 
 "Yes, she gets so muddled about money, poor 
 
282 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 old thing, and I have got such a clear head. I'm 
 putting her accounts beautifully straight for her. 
 The family ought to be grateful to me. Here, let 
 me go up to her ! " She rose. " I haven't time to 
 waste chattering to you." 
 
 Lucy laid her hand on the handle of the door. 
 
 " Lucy, how odd you are ! You don't seem to 
 want me to go up to Aunt Elspeth ? Let me go, 
 I say ! You cannot pretend to want to keep me 
 from seeing my own aunt." 
 
 " You can see her," said Lucy, removing her 
 hand from the handle. " Oh yes — but it will give 
 you a shock, I warn you ! " 
 
 " What ! Is Aunt Elspeth worse > " 
 
 " She's dead ! " said Lucy. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Mrs. Munday sat down suddenly. 
 
 " Dead ! Aunt Elspeth ! You wicked girl, 
 Lucy ! You horrid girl ! How dare you ! How 
 dared you play such a trick on me ! " 
 
 She went on in this strain, but Lucy, the timid, 
 stood beside her unabashed. There was a kind of 
 quiet dignity about her, as of a young avenging 
 deity, when, having allowed Lydia to exhaust her 
 expressions of anger and amazement, she began to 
 speak — 
 
 " Dear Aunt Elspeth died last night, or rather, 
 early this morning. We sent round to tell you — 
 
A HARD WOMAN 283 
 
 but I suppose you were out. It was quite a 
 sudden attack. Yesterday the doctor hinted there 
 was danger. We telegraphed for Fred. She had 
 asked for him. He's here now . . . For good- 
 ness' sake, Lydia, don't pretend you care ! Yon 
 needn't cry — nobody expects it of you ! You are 
 only mad because Aunt Elspeth has died before you 
 had time to make her alter her will. That's what 
 you came for, with your patent soup and your 
 sympathy. You never bothered to come near her 
 till she got ill, and then you came every other day. 
 Oh, I knew — we all knew — don't dare to pretend 
 to be sorry — we should despise you for it — we 
 won't allow it for a moment. Toosie has cried 
 ever since. She loved Aunt Elspeth. So did I. 
 I'd cry if I had time. I haven't. I must go to 
 mother. Mother is ill. If you want to know any- 
 thing more you must ask Fred . . . Fred, here's 
 Lydia. Talk to her " 
 
 She left the room. Mrs. Munday raised her 
 head as her brother slouched in. 
 
 " Cheer up, old girl ! Don't spoil your pretty 
 eyes ! You've come to a house of mourning, eh ? 
 Didn't expect the old lady would jack up quite so 
 soon, did you ? 'In the midst of life we are in 
 death,* etc. I've come down to arrange matters. 
 I say, Lyd ^' 
 
 "What?" 
 
284 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " You've mulled it a bit, haven't you ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, we all twigged your little game — you 
 wanted to get yourself well left — came and palavered 
 the old lady — everybody noticed it — Lucy's wild 
 with you about it, I can tell you. Straight girl, 
 Lucy! Oh, it was a neat little plan enough, I 
 don't blame you, but you weren't sharp enough to 
 pull it off. You've got to get up early if you want 
 to get the better of Death." 
 
 "Fred, you are an utter brute! . . . Poor old 
 aunt ! " 
 
 " Lord, Lyd, what an actress you arc ! You can 
 actually manage to squeeze out a tear or two ! 
 Brava ! brava ! Don't waste 'em on me, keep 'em 
 for the funeral." 
 
 " I'm not crying ! " said she roughly, as a school- 
 boy denies his tears when taunted by a companion. 
 " Look here, Fred, I want to speak to you. Fred, 
 you are killing me, do you know, Fred ! " The 
 tears started to her eyes, but she did not allow 
 them to fall. 
 
 " Am I, now ; how ? " 
 
 " Fred, it*s awfully bad ; you don't know what 
 a fearful position I'm in. Those shares ? Tell me 
 something ! I'm awfully hard up. It will kill 
 me ! Duns and bills and things keep coming, and 
 I don't know where to turn. I'm at my wits' 
 
A HARD WOMAN 285 
 
 end. It's wearing me out. Something awful will 
 happen ! I shall be disgraced — I really shall — if 
 something doesn't turn up ! You don't know how 
 bad it is/' 
 
 " Well, this is news. I'd no idea you were so hard 
 up ! You've managed to put a very good face on 
 it, so far, I must say. Balls and parties, carriages, 
 Paris dresses " 
 
 " Because I'm not a fool, Fred. I'm a plucky 
 woman, and I've contrived — I've struggled — I've 
 fought, but the time's coming when I shan't be 
 able to hide it any longer ; I see the end of it all 
 — disgrace — and I — I've always given myself such 
 airs. People will laugh . . . I've told no one, but 
 it's killing me ! " 
 
 " I can't help it, can I ? " 
 
 "Yes, Fred, it's you that are responsible! I 
 trusted you, you persuaded me, you know you 
 did ! . . . It's your doing, you are responsible 
 entirely. It's on your head, Fred." 
 
 " Damn ! Don't talk such rot ! It was a specu- 
 lation like another." 
 
 " But, Fred, you don't mean } " she looked 
 
 anxiously in his face. " Good God, Fred, is it as 
 bad as that ? I met a man who knew Cohen at 
 lunch one day, and he frightened me, but I still 
 believed you could pull it through. Oh, Fred, I 
 believed in you ! " 
 
286 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " I hardly believe in myself," said Fred sulkily. 
 " Cohen has had me over this, I can tell you." 
 
 " But, Fred — Fred, do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean . . . Look here, it's like this ! When 
 I first came and asked you to go into the syndicate 
 we were making to run the * Wallaby Proprietary,' 
 I really did believe in it. I don't say the thing 
 wasn't rotten — of course it was, these things 
 mostly are — but I thought you and I could get out 
 before it burst up. Well, we didn't. There, that's 
 speaking plainly, isn't it .•* " 
 
 "Yes, now you can speak plainly enough," said 
 she bitterly. " Why did^ you let me into a rotten 
 thing .? " 
 
 " I never told you it was sound, did I .? " 
 
 " You certainly did." 
 
 " Oh no, you're mistaken. All I said was, you 
 could get out of it in good time, and at a good 
 premium. Just as old Cohen and his lot — his gang 
 have." 
 
 " And as you have, I suppose." 
 
 " Eh > Who told you I had } " 
 
 " Have you } " 
 
 " Well, you see," said Fred, hesitating, " I did 
 manage to get rid of some part of my holding — 
 only a part, you know, not the whole by long 
 chalks — at a pretty good figure." 
 
 " And what about me ? " she wailed. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 287 
 
 "Well, you see," said Fred, continuing to use 
 the deprecatory formula, " it was a touch-and-go 
 thing. These things are a rush, always. You 
 part with ten thousand, and then five minutes after, 
 the market's as dull as a duck-pond, and you can't 
 get a share off for love or money." 
 
 ** So you saved yourself, like the selfish beast 
 that you are, and left me in the lurch ? You 
 cheat ! — you " 
 
 " Hold on, Lyd ! Don't go slanging me hke 
 that ! I tell you I'm left in myself — to some 
 extent. Cohen's done me, and I don't slang him. 
 On the contrary, I ask him to champagne lunches 
 — Heidsieck vin brut, you know — Cohen likes it 
 dry — best of everything — and next time I'll take 
 precious good care to leave him out in the cold." 
 
 " Don't drivel me about what you'll do to 
 Cohen. Tell me plainly — is my ten thousand 
 pounds absolutely gone and lost .'' " 
 
 " Well," said Fred, " your shares are not exactly 
 what we call a realizable asset." He sniggered 
 nervously. 
 
 She made a step forward, and the look on her 
 face alarmed him. " Look here, Fred, I won't go 
 on being cheated Hke this. Tell me what you and 
 your friends have done with my fortune that I gave 
 them at your bidding ? " 
 
 "Ask old Cohen." 
 
28a A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Fred- 
 
 " I say, Lyd, you're awfully simple for a clever 
 woman ! Did you ever hear of salting a mine ? 
 Well, your ten thousand pounds have been in the 
 salt-cellar. Did you ever hear of a sprat to catch 
 a herring ? Well, your money was that sprat — 
 your money and mine." 
 
 "And that devil Cohen has made a fortune 
 over it > " 
 
 " Hardly, but he's netted a neat thing. If ever 
 I " 
 
 " Surely he could be made to recoup ? " 
 
 " Could he ? What a lark it would be to try ! 
 Have you the money, though ? You would have 
 to spend a little fortune, and get up early in the 
 morning, to beat Cohen. He's beaten me . . . No, 
 no, Lyd, give it up and think of something else . . . 
 What's the matter now ? " 
 
 " Don't you see I'm done — ruined ! " She stag- 
 gered and turned quite white. 
 
 Fred was a little frightened. 
 
 " Don't go and faint, for heaven's sake ! It's not 
 like you. Pull yourself together, and think of a 
 way out of this." 
 
 " I can't — I can't. I wish I was dead." 
 
 " No, you don't. Don't give way like a school- 
 girl." He stretched out a clumsy hand and laid 
 it on her shoulder. She shook it off fiercely. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 289 
 
 " Look here, you're not the woman I take you for 
 if you haven't some card or other up your sleeve. 
 What about mother ? " 
 
 " I'd die sooner than tell her. Besides, she's got 
 nothing." 
 
 " Then Lucy ? She doesn't live up to her allow- 
 ance, I'll be bound. Tell her everything and ask 
 her to help you." 
 
 " Confide in a woman ! Never ! I never did, 
 and I never will.'* 
 
 " Well, then your husband ? He's the proper 
 person." 
 
 "Fred, you know Ferdinand has nothing but 
 what he makes, and he has been ill this year." 
 
 " I could perhaps lend you a couple of hundred — 
 three hundred — on some sort of security, if that 
 would help you to go on." 
 
 " A mere drop in the ocean ! " 
 
 " By Jove ! You must have been going it ! 
 Why, Annabel and I have been pulling in for some 
 time past. We are none so well off, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, I'm glad — I'm glad you feel it ! I'm glad 
 you and your dowdy wife suffer too." 
 
 " You little devil ! " 
 
 *' Yes. I am ! I am ! You've made me one ! 
 I hate you, Fred. I hate every one. I hate the 
 whole world ! I haven't a single friend in it ! I 
 
290 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 wish — I wish I could insure all your lives, and 
 then poison you after, like " 
 
 " You'll end in the dock, Lyd, if you go on like 
 this ! But talking of friends, you've always been a 
 pretty good flirt, I dare say you know any amount 
 of fellows who would only be too glad to fork out 
 for you. What's the good of being pretty ? Work 
 'em, I say ! What has become of that aristocratic 
 fellow Davenant, who was always hanging about ? 
 Now's his time." 
 
 Mrs. Munday rose. " Open the door, if you 
 please, and send for a hansom. I'm not going 
 to stay here to be insulted. I'm sorry I've got a 
 low, coarse brute for my brother. No, I won't be 
 lent anything ! I'd rather starve . . . Let me pass, 
 please ... Is there a cab there ? " 
 
 " Where are you going ? " asked he, a little 
 appalled by her vehemence. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ... To the river, I think." 
 
 " Better try the Jews first ! " said Fred Barker 
 mockingly, as she dashed past him. 
 
 " It's pretty nearly the same thing." She got 
 into the hansom, and speaking huskily through 
 the trap-door, gave the address of a well-known 
 office in the City. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 291 
 
 SCENE XXV 
 
 " Would you like to come to my box for the 
 first night at the Pall Mall Theatre to-morrow ? " 
 said Mrs. Bowen to Cossie Davenant, as they stood 
 together in the crush at Mrs. Malory's ball. It 
 was early in the evening and everybody was 
 arriving. 
 
 " I should like it of all things. Who is this new 
 woman who is to play the title part in The Doctor s 
 Wife?'' 
 
 "Miss lima Loraine ? I don't know. Calder- 
 Marston discovered her somewhere, picked her out 
 of the provinces I believe. He thinks her very 
 good. Polngdestre wrote the play for her. All 
 I know about it is that it's intensely modern. We 
 shall see 1 . . , Good heavens ! Look at Lydia 
 Munday ! " 
 
 " I never look at Lydia Munday. She has 
 ceased to interest me." 
 
 " I assure you she looks positively ghastly. Is 
 it her black dress, I wonder ? Black makes some 
 
292 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 people look awful. She's in mourning for an aunt, 
 I believe. I haven't seen her anywhere for quite 
 six weeks." 
 
 " I knew she would be here to-night," said Cossie 
 Davenant, with a sinister twist of his lip. 
 
 " How did you know ? Because St. Jerome's 
 here ? Ah, he's very faithful, poor old fellow — clings 
 to the sinking ship." 
 
 Cossie looked at her. 
 
 " I'm not spiteful — not a bit ! " said she uneasily. 
 " But you can't deny that Lydia is a little gone off 
 — completely, one might say. I never saw a woman 
 so changed. She's hardly pretty now." 
 
 " Was she ever ? " 
 
 " Well, people said so. You thought so — come ! " 
 
 " In my salad days/' replied Cossie. 
 
 " How Lydia would have been down on you for 
 that common-place! . . . Well," she continued, 
 surveying Mrs. Munday through her pince-nez, " if 
 I looked as ill as that, I'd stop at home. But I 
 dare say she had her reasons for wanting to come." 
 
 It was Mrs. Hugo Malory's ball — her great ball 
 — the ball of the season — that she gave every year 
 for the benefit of two plain nieces, and to which 
 every one was glad to get an invitation. 
 
 " And there's Ferdinand Munday ! He looks ill 
 and worried too. Poor Ferdinand ! I am devoted 
 to him, you know. Don't you like him ? " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 293 
 
 " He's too good for that infernal woman, at any 
 rate," muttered Cossie unwillingly. 
 
 " How you hate her, Cossie ! What has she 
 done to you ? Only got bored with you ? She 
 gets bored with people very easily. Oh, don't 
 look savage ! You had your turn like everybody 
 else. I wonder Ferdinand doesn't flirt in self- 
 defence. But there was never anybody but that 
 Miss France, and it was she, more than he, I think. 
 I must say Lydia was very patient about that — no 
 particular merit in her, though, for I believe she's 
 too cold-blooded to be jealous. I am sure I should 
 have been, with such a handsome husband. But 
 there was always something froggy about Lydia, I 
 think — something not quite human." 
 
 " I fancy she's human enough," he said, " if only 
 one knows where to take her." 
 
 " I sometimes think if she had had a child, it 
 would have softened her," continued Mrs. Bowen ; 
 " and she never cries, you know. But at their last 
 evening-party — they haven't given one for ages — 
 she looked as if she wished us all away, I can tell 
 you. Something was wrong. The party wasn't 
 at all a success. Very shabby — and their parties 
 used to be so good. And last time I called there 
 was a rude woman in the hall declaring she wouldn't 
 go away unless she was paid ! And my husband 
 met Lydia quite plainly dressed in a brown veil 
 
J>94 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 right away down in the City ! Are they hard up, 
 do you think ? Pulling in ? I've suspected it for 
 a long time. One notices little things ; and Lydia 
 and I have the same dressmaker — Madame Cromer 
 — and Cromer is always hinting that there's some- 
 thing. Though Lydia prides herself on being such 
 a capital manager, even she can't create money. 
 They have that enormous house to keep up, and 
 Lydia has awfully expensive habits. She was an 
 heiress, I believe. They couldn't live in that style 
 on pictures. I must get my husband to go and buy 
 a picture. I like Ferdinand. I should hate to see 
 him look poor — not dressed well. He does dress so 
 well — so unlike most artists ! " 
 
 " That handsome dress of Mrs. Munday's doesn't 
 look much like poverty ! " sneered the young man. 
 
 " My dear Cossie, that proves nothing ! The 
 last thing a woman saves off is her own back. She 
 would sooner save off her friends." 
 
 " Has she any friends } " 
 
 " Yes, but they are mostly his. People are 
 beginning to fight shy of her and her tongue. It 
 takes the skin off one like a tiger's. She can't 
 help it. It's her nature. Look how unkind she 
 used to be to you, even ! " 
 
 " Not always." 
 
 " What do you mean .? . . . You very conceited 
 boy!" 
 
A HARD WOMAN 295 
 
 " That sentence shows you understand what I 
 mean," said Cossie. 
 
 " Tell me, now, was there ever anything in it — 
 what people said ? Oh, you know I'm privileged ; 
 I always say what I like ; no one ever dreams of 
 being offended with me and my silly speeches ! 
 Tell me, was there ? " 
 
 " Was there what ? " 
 
 " Anything — decided ? I was told there was/' 
 
 " I shall not tell you." 
 
 " That's as good as telling me." 
 
 "Why do you want to know?" said he indulg- 
 ently. 
 
 " I confess I should like to know something — 
 not necessarily for publication — about Lydia. It 
 gives one such a pull. Lydia always gets the best 
 of me somehow, though I don't suppose she's any 
 cleverer than I am, really. It's hateful. I should 
 like to have something to smite her with." She 
 leaned across to him, with a pathetically beautiful 
 expression of appeal on her face. 
 
 Cossie looked at her. " Oh, you'll have the best 
 of it in future, I can tell you." 
 
 " Is it — is there going to be a row — a scandal ? " 
 she exclaimed, her face lighting up. " Tell me, I 
 am so bored just now. Do you know anything, 
 you delightful person? Is it about Miss France?" 
 
 " Come and dance ? " he asked shortly, and in 
 
296 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 joyful anticipation of gossip to come she rose 
 obediently and took his arm back to the ball-room. 
 
 « « « « # 
 
 " I shall be ready to go very soon, Ferdinand, if 
 you don't mind," Mrs. Munday was saying to her 
 husband, in another part of the room. " I'm tired. I 
 only wanted to show myself! Send Mr. St. Jerome 
 to me if you can find him, and come back for me 
 in twenty minutes." 
 
 She sank wearily into a causeuse^ half shaded by 
 the inevitable palm of ball-rooms, and lit by a pink- 
 flushed Chinese lantern. She yawned desperately 
 and half closed her eyes. Presently the two couples 
 who shared the little nook drifted out, and left her 
 alone. Then she sat up and furtively put her hand 
 in her pocket, drawing thence a square sheet of 
 blue letter-paper which she scanned with the air of 
 one who had read it already. 
 
 " A week ! Only a week ! They only give me a 
 week; that's seven days; and then — then — oh, 
 the deluge!" She groaned, and half rose. Cossie 
 Davenant appeared in the doorway. The sheet 
 of paper fell from her hand, and she sat down 
 again helplessly. 
 
 " Yes, you had better stop, Mrs. Munday." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " I want to speak to you. Sit down, please ! " 
 
 " You give your orders ? " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 297 
 
 " Please sit down. I am not going to ask you 
 for a dance. I want to speak to you — on business." 
 
 " I will speak to you — on business ! " She laid a 
 stress on the last word. There was a pause, in 
 which he stood and looked down on her. 
 
 " Look here," said he, working himself up, *' I 
 don't mean to stand this kind of thing any longer." 
 
 "What kind of thing?" 
 
 "The kind of thing you are doing. You are 
 making society a perfect hell to me ! " 
 
 " You have done that for yourself." 
 
 " You are making me ridiculous." 
 
 " Is that in my power? " 
 
 " All my friends are telling me of it, that you go 
 about abusing me, and spreading the vilest slanders 
 against me. I don't choose to be snubbed by you 
 —you ! I won't bear it ! I will stop your mouth ! " 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 "In the usual way. I have a story to tell, and 
 by Jove, I'll tell it, unless " 
 
 Mrs. Munday's nonchalant pose grew if possible 
 more nonchalant. She fixed unwavering eyes, 
 rimmed round as they were with the bistred shades 
 of sleeplessness and ill-health, on his flushed face. 
 
 " Unless I ? How very interesting ! I never 
 
 was blackmailed before ! It's quite a new sensa- 
 tion ! Do you want money? For if so, I'm afraid 
 I am unable at present to " 
 
298 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Confound it all ! Do you take mc for a 
 cad?" 
 
 « I'm afraid I do." 
 
 " I want to be revenged — to be revenged on 
 you ; do you understand ? " 
 
 " Revenge ! How delightful to hear the expres- 
 sion used in real life ! I've only heard it up to 
 now on the stage of the Adelphi ! " 
 
 "You'll find I'm serious." 
 
 " I find you delightfully pompous, so far," she 
 said, raising her pince-nez. " You are as good as 
 a play, as I have just told you. Go on ; what 
 will you do to me ? " 
 
 " I will tell every one " 
 
 " Tell every one what ? Be more explicit ! That 
 you had the impertinence to make love to me, and 
 that I had to snub you 1 And how I nearly had 
 to carry you whimpering along the rocks at Swan- 
 bergh ? . . . Oh, it's a pretty story ! I felt then I 
 could never speak to you again. I detest and 
 despise cowards ! " 
 
 " You — you could bear to speak to me once," he 
 stuttered, almost choking with rage. 
 
 " I wonder how I came to do it." 
 
 *'■ You even wrote to me." 
 
 " Did I really ? " 
 
 " I kept the letters." 
 
 " How childish of you ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 299 
 
 " I counted them this morning ; there are eleven 
 of them!" 
 
 " Are there indeed ? " 
 
 " Would you like everybody to read them ? " 
 
 " I have not the slightest objection. I have not 
 a notion what was in them, but I don't fancy it 
 would corrupt anybody." 
 
 Though she spoke with infinite assurance, her 
 brow furrowed ; she appeared to be questioning her 
 memory . . . From that moment she lost her ad- 
 vantage, and Davenant, becoming master of him- 
 self and of the situation, assumed the ease of the 
 judicial manner. "A woman," he said, "asked me 
 just now, if all they say about you and me was 
 true. I did not tell her that you came to my 
 rooms, but I might — ^might I not ? " 
 
 " You told me your sisters were there," she said 
 hastily. 
 
 " But they weren't ; they had left half-an*hour 
 before. They were not told you were coming, or 
 they would have stayed.'* 
 
 " You had no right to let me come in ! " 
 
 " You did not say so at the time. You were 
 content that they should be absent. If I recollect, 
 you stayed — you fluttered about, and looked at 
 things, and " 
 
 " And what ? " 
 
 "And — nothing! But still you were a little anxious 
 
300 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 about it, and you sent me a telegram. * Mrs. 
 Maple-Durham had tea with you to-day — Munday^ 
 Here it is ! Why should you trouble to tell me 
 who was at tea in my rooms ? I was up to it of 
 course, and I wrote you a letter and added a post- 
 script to this effect — ' The Maple-Durham' s puce 
 gown — oJl^ call it puce, not dirty — didnt harmonize 
 well with my flame-coloured hangings to-day, 
 did it ? ' Here is your reply ! Shall I read it ? 
 * That was very wily of you, Cossie. I showed 
 your letter to Ferdi7tand. Mrs. Maple-Durham's 
 puce gown quite settled his doubts. You see, he 
 happened to ask me when I came home zuho was 
 there, and I had to invent Mrs. Maple-Durham on 
 t/ie spur of the moment' That sounds rather odd, 
 doesn't it ? " 
 
 " You kept that letter ? You carry it about with 
 you ? " 
 
 " That, and ten others ! The whole bundle takes 
 very little room. I vowed ever since that lunch at 
 Mrs. Maple-Durham's, when you sat opposite me 
 and abused me to St. Jerome, that next time I 
 came across you, I would make you sorry for the 
 way you have behaved." 
 
 " There is nothing particularly compromising in 
 going to the rooms of a boy like you." 
 
 " Then why send telegrams about it ? And 
 listen to this, d propos of that little Fourth of June 
 
A HARD WOMAN 301 
 
 escapade of ours ! — ' How well you remember poetry ! 
 Orsinds speech suits the occasion exactly. I see I can 
 trust you. If people only knew how to hold their 
 tongues^ they would get far more of their own way! " 
 " What is Orsino's speech ? '* 
 
 " I swear, 
 To dedicate my cunning and my strength, 
 My silence, and whatever else is mine, 
 To thy commands." 
 
 He emphasized the word " silence." 
 
 " I am not responsible for what a man in Shake- 
 speare says/' 
 
 " No, but you were good enough to apply it to 
 your own case. Shall I read any more ? " 
 
 " It's nothing — it's nothing ! " she cried vehe- 
 mently. " What a mountain out of a molehill ! 
 Nobody would think anything of it — as society is 
 now." 
 
 ** We will see what Mrs. Bowen says to it. It 
 will amuse her, at any rate." 
 
 " Let me have the letter to look at," said she 
 suddenly. 
 
 " I expected you to ask that ! " he answered 
 gravely, handing the letter to her. She examined it, 
 carefully holding it up to the light of the Chinese 
 lantern over her head . . . Her fingers closed on 
 it to tear it up — 
 
303 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Do, by all means," he said. " It's only a copy." 
 
 Uttering an ugly cry of rage she crumpled it up 
 and flung it in his face. It fell to the ground 
 beside them, and Cossie asked, insolently — 
 
 " Shall I leave it there — for the housemaids to 
 find ? They won't know it's a copy. It might 
 interest Mrs. Malory, who seems to believe in 
 you '' 
 
 " Cossie ! " she said imploringly. 
 
 " Oh yes, Cossie now " 
 
 " Don't offer me up as a sacrifice to May Bowen. 
 She hates me." 
 
 " I am quite aware of that. She would be de- 
 lighted to hear of our travelling down to Swan- 
 bergh together last summer." 
 
 " We didn't I " 
 
 " We didn't actually, because that fellow St. 
 Jerome got into the way. But I met you at the 
 other end. And we corresponded about it, and 
 made arrangements about hotels." 
 
 " You went to a different one." 
 
 " That hardly appears from the letter. Yes, you 
 have been most imprudent, Mrs. Munday. You 
 should have thought twice before treating me as 
 you have done. And I've another charming letter 
 at home in answer to one I wrote to you asking 
 you to call me by my Christian name — and other 
 privileges " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 303 
 
 " You are a cad 1 I was warned against you. I 
 see they were right." 
 
 " They?" said he contemptuously. " St. Jerome, 
 I suppose. You abused me to him. Well, I'll make 
 you sorry you ever called me names." 
 
 "What am I to do?" 
 
 ** That is no concern of mine." 
 
 " Will you come and see me ? Shall we let 
 by-gones be by-gones ? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " What do you mean to do ? Show those letters 
 to my husband ? " 
 
 He sneered. " Your husband — good man — what 
 are you thinking of? I shall show them to the 
 people whose opinion you really care about, the 
 people whom you are afraid of, who can make you 
 feel— you feel — if you can ! Your husband ! Do 
 you think I don't know all about your relations 
 with your husband ? You couldn't disillusion him 
 if you tried, he knows you ! So do I ! So will 
 everybody soon. There he is ! Go to him, and 
 get him to take care of you." 
 
 She rose, and walking unsteadily up to her 
 husband, " Ferdinand, take me home ! " she cried. 
 ***** 
 
 Davenant stooped to pick up the crumpled 
 copy of the letter which had rolled under the 
 seat. In so doing he recovered the blue paper 
 
304 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 which Mrs. Munday had dropped just before. He 
 read it — 
 
 " * Two hundred and two, Billiter Court,' I know 
 those fellows. * Madame Cromer s advance ' — The 
 friendly dressmaker, by Jove ! — ' We beg to inform 
 you on beJialf of our client, Madame Cromer, that 
 your three months' bill for ;^85o \os. 6d' — That's 
 stiff! — ^became due and payable on the loth inst., and 
 that our client does not feel inclined to renew the 
 same. We are accordingly instructed to call upon 
 you for immediate payment of the aforesaid sum of 
 £Z^O \0s. 6d., failing which we are instructed to 
 proceed against you without furtJter notice. We 
 also beg to remind you that our client has a bill 
 of sale on your furniture. We are, faithfully 
 yours, Levi & Sludge!" 
 
 He carefully folded up the letter with the law- 
 yers' address outside, and walking slowly into the 
 cloak-room, where Munday was putting on his 
 coat, gave it to him, saying — " Mrs. Munday 
 dropped this, I think." 
 
 Munday acknowledged the service by a slight 
 nod, and put the paper in his pocket without 
 looking at it. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 305 
 
 SCENE XXVI 
 
 The moonlight poured full on to Lydia Mun- 
 day's face, as she lay in bed. She had forgotten 
 to close the window-curtains. Presently she sat 
 up, her eyes dilated, her hands outstretched, in the 
 agony of dreaming. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! Gentlemen ! Please ! No — I — it 
 is a shame ! What am I to do ? You give nie no 
 time. Next Tuesday ! Next Tuesday ! I can't 
 possibly do it by then . . . Why, it's absurd — per- 
 fectly absurd ! I never meant . . . Borrow of 
 Cossie ? Oh no ! Madame Cromer, you ought to 
 be ashamed ! . . . Give them back — give them back, 
 Cossie ! It's a caddish thing to keep a woman's 
 letters . . . Ferdinand is a gentleman. Don't look 
 at them — not intended ..." 
 
 The door of the room, which she had left 
 ajar, creaked a little on its hinges. She shrieked 
 agonizedly — 
 
 " Oh no — no — you can't come in ! Don't let 
 
 X 
 
3o6 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 them in, Celeste ! Say I'm out . . . say I'm 
 dressing . . . great, rough, coarse men ! The law 
 . . . must you ? That — and that ? Oh no, not 
 everything — not that cabinet — that is my hus- 
 band's — you can't take that ! I say you can't. 
 Fred! Fred! Stop them! They have no right. 
 Don't stand there laughing, Madame Cromer! 
 Fred, don't laugh ! Oh, Fred, you beast, it's your 
 fault! You've ruined me. Where's that money? 
 Answer me ! Answer me ! Speak, can't you ? " 
 
 " Dear, I can't speak till you take your fingers 
 ofif my throat." It was her husband's voice. " Don't 
 you know you are nearly throttling me ! " 
 
 " They're in, they're in ! " she screamed, still 
 clutching him frantically. "The broker's men — 
 horrible creatures. Send them away ! . . . Don't 
 laugh, it's awful ! I can't pay, and I can't get the 
 letters back. I'm ruined . . . Cossie ! " 
 
 "Wake up, dear, it is I — Ferdinand. What's 
 all this about broker's men and Fred and Cossie 
 and letters ? " 
 
 " He has no right to keep them. There's nothing 
 in them, nothing, I assure you " 
 
 " No, dear, no, I'm sure there's nothing in them." 
 He turned up the electric light, and, coming back, 
 put his arm round her protectingly. She stared 
 wildly about the room over his shoulder. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 307 
 
 " Have they gone then ? Gone — really gone ? 
 Why, it's you, Ferdinand! What have I been 
 saying ? " 
 
 **You have been talking in your sleep. You 
 shouldn't go to sleep with the moonlight full on 
 your face. You left your door open, and I was 
 sitting up reading in the studio, and I heard 
 you " 
 
 " Talking out loud .? I often do," she said 
 stolidly. " It means nothing." 
 
 " You said some uncommonly odd things, I can 
 tell you." 
 
 "What did I say.? What did I talk about?" 
 she asked anxiously, shaking off his arm. 
 
 " Oh — sleepy nonsense— Fred and furniture — 
 you seemed to fancy you were being sold up " 
 
 " What else .? " 
 
 " Oh, your dressmaker — and a letter. Is it by 
 any chance a letter which Davenant handed to me 
 to-night as I was putting on my coat } He said 
 
 you had dropped it. Wait " he began to feel 
 
 in his pockets. Mrs. Munday's eyes grew round 
 with terror — she seized his hand — 
 
 "Oh, Ferdinand, dear Ferdinand, I can explain 
 it all. I really can. It's only a foolish letter of 
 mine — I can explain " 
 
 " You can save yourself the trouble," replied her 
 
3o8 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 husband coldly. " I haven't looked at the letter 
 even. There it is, just as he gave it to me ! " 
 
 She snatched it from his hand and hid it under 
 the pillow. The lawyers' address was distinctly 
 visible. He frowned and took his arm away from 
 her shoulder. 
 
 " Lydia ! " he said gravely. 
 
 " What ? " She turned away her eyes. 
 
 " You know I don't pretend to influence your 
 actions, or interfere in your affairs in any way — 
 but if I can help you at all — ? Surely that was a 
 lawyer's letter ! " 
 
 " No ; it isn't — zs it ? " She dragged the letter 
 violently from under the pillow, glanced at it and 
 screamed out, " That one ! And he has read it ! 
 Then I am done — oh, I'm done " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! Who has read it .? " 
 
 " Cossie — Cossie Davenant — that means all the 
 world. Take it ! Read it ! Perhaps you can 
 help me ! " 
 
 She thrust it into his hand, and turning round 
 hid her face in the pillow, while he sat on the edge 
 of the bed and read the letter through. Then he 
 touched his wife gently on the shoulder. 
 
 "Turn found and explain this to me. This 
 woman — Madame Cromer — threatens an execution 
 on your furniture .? " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 309 
 
 " Yes, Ferdinand." 
 
 " Unless you pay her by next Tuesday ? " 
 
 " Yes, Ferdinand/' 
 
 "You are in debt to her, for clothes — to this 
 amount ? " 
 
 " No, no, Ferdinand, not clothes, not all clothes 
 — she lent me money — it all went down in the 
 bill, don't you see ? " 
 
 " Why don't you pay her ? You can afford to, 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 "That's just it. I can't." 
 
 '* You have an income of — let me see " 
 
 " Don't count up, Ferdinand, you worry me. 
 I hadr 
 
 " You are insolvent ? " 
 
 "Yes. That's what Fred has done. Fred has 
 ruined me — the wretch — the beast " 
 
 " Don't get excited, but tell me what Fred has 
 done." 
 
 " Go and open that drawer of my escritoire. 
 There are the keys on the dressing-table." 
 
 Munday crossed the room, opened a drawer 
 according to her directions, and took out sheaves 
 of papers. 
 
 " Read them," she said wearily. 
 
 He sat down with his back to her. She propped 
 her chin on her hand and watched him as he read 
 
3IO A HARD WOMAN 
 
 them carefully. There were bills unreceipted, the 
 applications of tradesmen in all tones and styles — 
 formal reminders, requests for payment, impor- 
 tunate applications for money, appeals, threats, and 
 finally the cold, inexorable demands of lawyers — 
 all the pitiless artillery which plays incessantly 
 upon the insolvent. 
 
 " You see how it is," she said at last, when he 
 rose and came back to her. 
 
 " I see that you have got yourself into the devil's 
 own mess. I had no idea of this. I ought to have 
 looked after you. Tell me, when did this all 
 begin ? About two years ago, I gather ? " 
 
 " Yes, soon after we were married — when Fred 
 came to see me, and he told me all about the 
 * Wallaby Proprietary Diggings.' I was all right till 
 I joined that hateful syndicate of Fred's. One always 
 believed in Fred, he's so cocksure! And I gave 
 them ten thousand like a fool ! You saw all that ? 
 and then they allotted me shares in the company 
 they formed — and my shares went down. And 
 you know we were living on rather an expensive 
 scale just then — carriage, dinners, and parties — 
 and I had to dress, and keep up appearances, for 
 your sake, Ferdinand " 
 
 He made an impatient gesture. 
 
 " Oh yes, I had to. It _wasn't extravagance — it 
 
A HARD WOMAN 311 
 
 was business. People don't buy your pictures 
 unless you swagger and are the fashion, and we 
 were the fashion, thanks to me ! But one can*t 
 swagger on nothing, and I began to feel pinched 
 for money. I couldn't pay for the things I had to 
 have, and the tradespeople got impertinent and 
 began to bully and make scenes. And Madame 
 Cromer offered . . . she was so delightfully easy 
 at first ... it all seemed so simple, and nobody 
 would know . . . she was like a friend, . . . and of 
 course I thought Fred's thing would begin to pay 
 every minute. I kept writing all the time to Fred, 
 and he took no notice of my letters — devil ! And 
 I began to sell things, you know, things you missed 
 — pictures and china — I said they were broken — 
 we sent Mary away about them, don't you re- 
 member } And you were so stupid you never 
 guessed what was going on . . . And then Madame 
 Cromer changed her tone — oh, you wouldn't believe 
 how insolent she was ! — and wouldn't make any 
 more advances, or renew or anything — it nearly 
 drove me mad ! I did everything I could ; I 
 even tried to write a novel to make money, and 
 old St. Jerome said it was no good . . . And then 
 Aunt Elspeth died, and she didn't leave me any- 
 thing to speak of, as I had hoped . . . and then 
 I went to a Jew place in Holborn and borrowed 
 
312 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 something at awful interest to go on with, and 
 I haven't paid that. I renewed, but it's all no 
 good ! The house rent is due now — I dare say 
 they would wait — but Cromer won't, she is a 
 perfect devil." 
 
 Munday was pacing round the room during the 
 flood of revelation. He stopped. 
 
 " Then what you have immediately to dread is 
 this execution, isn't it } What have you put in ? " 
 
 " Only my own things, Ferdinand. Chiefly the 
 furniture of this room, which I paid for myself — 
 that wardrobe — that cabinet " 
 
 " My Sheraton cabinet ! " 
 
 " Dear, it's mine. You gave it me. Don't you 
 remember I made you write down on a slip of 
 paper that you did give it me } That was to show 
 the people it did belong to me. And that corner 
 cupboard and that little marquetry table — I had 
 to sign something every time to show it belonged 
 to me." 
 
 His eye rested on each article of furniture as she 
 enumerated it, and in the course of its wanderings 
 rested on the riviere of diamonds lying on the 
 dressing-table. His eyebrows went up interro- 
 gatively t 
 
 " Paste ! " said she laconically. 
 
 " You sold your mother's wedding present ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 
 
 313 
 
 " I got seven hundred pounds for them at 
 Levi's." 
 
 " They were worth three times the money. Why 
 didn't you consult me ? Why didn't you tell me 
 you were hard up ? I would have painted a pot- 
 boiler for you — as I shall have to do," said he 
 bitterly. 
 
 " I wish to God I had." 
 
 " Now, when it's too late ! " 
 
 " Oh, Ferdinand, are we really ruined } " she cried, 
 bursting into tears. 
 
 Munday did not contest the plural. 
 
 " We shall see," he said. " I do not know yet. 
 ril know by to-morrow. I'll do what I can. Are 
 you sure you have told me everything ? " 
 
 " Ye-es," she said doubtfully. 
 
 " Is there anything else I ought to know ? 
 What about a letter you said some one — 
 Davenant — had ? Is it anything to do about this 
 business ? " 
 
 She wrung her hands together piteously, but did 
 not speak. 
 
 " You may as well make a clean breast of it, 
 Lydia, while you are about it," her husband said 
 coldly. " I can't possibly help you if I am left in 
 the dark." 
 
 " He's sure to tell you himself if I don't," said 
 
314 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 she, after a long pause of internal conflict. " It 
 is about some letters " 
 
 "Bearing on this matter? Surely you haven't 
 taken Davenant into your confidence ? " 
 
 "No, no, Ferdinand — no, indeed. I've told 
 nobody. Is it likely ? Nobody knows it. You 
 wouldn't if you hadn't happened to come in when 
 I was talking in my sleep. But you had better 
 know about it, I think. It's nothing — only some 
 letters I wrote to him when we were friends — long 
 ago. He threatens to show them " 
 
 " To me } Let him ! He knows I wouldn't 
 look at them." 
 
 " Wouldn't you } You trust me then ? Oh no, 
 I shouldn't mind you — but " 
 
 " Has he tried to blackmail you .? " 
 
 ** No, he hasn't, so far, but he means to use them 
 against me. I've offended him somehow, you 
 know." 
 
 " Can the letters do any harm } " 
 
 " They can make me ridiculous," she said, 
 blushing deeply. " He is an utter cad. I wish to 
 God I had never known him. Now don't say, * I 
 told you so,' for I can't bear it." 
 
 " I wasn't going to say anything of the sort." 
 
 " You're very generous, Ferdinand. You are a 
 gentleman. I never knew any one so " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 315 
 
 He coldly ignored her compliments. "Yes, I 
 will see Davenant to-morrow — and Cohen — and 
 your brother " 
 
 " Fred has gone back to Manchester." 
 
 " Cohen hasn't, I happen to know — he's got a 
 place in Holborn." 
 
 " Why, Ferdinand, I didn't know that." 
 
 " I know a great deal more about those people 
 than you think. Lie down now and go to sleep. 
 It's nearly morning. You looked ghastly this even- 
 ing. I suppose all this has been worrying you." 
 
 " Worrying me ! Ferdinand, it's killing me. I've 
 grown quite thin over it. See ! Feel ! " She held 
 out a thin little stick of an arm for his inspection. 
 " I've lost all my looks, I am afraid." She looked 
 up at him as if she expected to be contradicted, 
 but all he said was — 
 
 " You must rest. Are you doing anything to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 " We are to go to the first night at the Pall Mall 
 with Mrs. Malory.*' 
 
 "Oh, well, you had better give that up. Send 
 an excuse. You are not fit for it." He turned 
 down the light. " I will take all these papers and 
 go over them, and see what is to be done. Go to 
 sleep now, and don't think of this. I'll undertake 
 it all, if you will allow me. Can you sleep ? " 
 
3i6 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 "Yes, I think so," she murmured drowsily. 
 Her eyes were closing from sheer exhaustion. 
 
 " That's right. Don't think of it. Trust me — if 
 you can." 
 
 " I . . . you are very good to me ! Yes, I think 
 I will go to sleep. Good-night . . . Would you 
 give me a kiss before you go ? " she asked humbly. 
 
 He kissed her. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 317 
 
 SCENE XXVII 
 
 " Well, what do you think of it ? " I asked 
 Mrs. Munday, as the curtain went down on the 
 first act of The Doctor's Wife^ Poingdestre's latest 
 sociologistic play. 
 
 "I think she's splendid — perfectly splendid — 
 Mr. St. Jerome ! " replied Mrs. Munday, exhibit- 
 ing a most unusual enthusiasm — for her, and, 
 woman-like, declining to consider anything but 
 the feminine interest of the play, as embodied in 
 the new actress. Miss lima Loraine. 
 
 " It is a completely fresh method," said Mrs. 
 Hugo Malory, our hostess, beaming all over with 
 aesthetic appreciation. "That quiet, almost languid 
 delivery, that absence of rant, that harmony of 
 gesture, impress me more than anything I ever saw 
 before in English acting. And such a beautiful 
 girl too ! " 
 
 I had dined early with Mrs. Malory in Hill 
 Street, and she had brought me on to her box 
 at the Pall Mall Theatre. The Mundays were 
 to meet us there, but it was Lydia alone who 
 
3i8 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 appeared at the rising of the curtain, explaining 
 that her husband had not been able to escort her, 
 and would come on later. 
 
 " Ferdinand has been out all day and didn't 
 even come home to dinner," she complained. 
 " iVe not seen him since this morning." 
 
 I fancied she was anxious to see him, for she 
 watched the door furtively, and twisted her neck 
 violently round every time there occurred one of 
 those little clicks of the lock inevitable in a 
 draughty theatre. The thin muscles of her neck, 
 with its collar of rather mediocre diamonds, stood 
 out as she strained them. She was dressed in 
 hard metallic black, which suited her but ill, I 
 thought. She had completely lost the look of super- 
 abundant health and energy which used to dis- 
 tinguish her, and which, with her regular features 
 and piquancy of expression, gave her her rank 
 among the pretty women of London. Moreover 
 — another thing struck me ! Had our dear Lydia 
 taken to making up ? Was she losing her looks, 
 and conscious of it ? I could not utterly repudiate 
 either suggestion. 
 
 Mrs. Malory used her glasses, and looked round 
 the house. " There is the little Bowen with young 
 Davenant," she announced, and Lydia's eyes fol- 
 lowed anxiously in the direction she indicated. 
 " Vm glad you dropped him, dear." 
 
A HARD WOMAN 319 
 
 " But have you not forgiven him ? " I asked 
 Mrs. Munday, in a low voice. " I saw you talking 
 to him at the ball last night." 
 
 My remark appeared to embarrass her ; she had 
 no repartee ready. " And there's your sister," I 
 continued, " in the stalls with — why, it's Fred — and 
 his wife ? I thought they lived in Manchester } " 
 
 " Fred happens to be in town on business 
 connected with my aunt's death." 
 
 " I think I must go and speak to Miss Barker. 
 Have you any messages .? " 
 
 " None for Fred," said his sister sombrely, " and 
 I saw Lucy this morning." 
 
 ***** 
 
 "You are with Lydia, I see," said Lucy — Fred 
 and his wife were talking to the man in front. 
 " She looks all right up there. I suppose she has 
 been making herself up a little." 
 
 I thought Lucy spiteful. " Making herself up ? " 
 
 "Poor girl, I'm sure it's quite excusable. If you 
 had seen her this morning you would wonder she 
 is here at all. She quite frightened me ! I never 
 saw her like that before." 
 
 " Like what ? " 
 
 " She wasn't herself — quite — she talked non- 
 sense. She was still in bed — at twelve o'clock ! 
 Luckily I came in. She tossed about, and kept 
 telling me the room was full of white butterflies ! 
 
320 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 Ferdinand had gone out — for a wonder — and I 
 sent for the doctor on my own responsibility. He 
 gave her something and told her to stay in bed. 
 Of course she disobeyed him and came here. I 
 shouldn't be surprised if she were to faint ! She 
 looks pretty ghastly, in spite of her rouge." 
 
 " I will look after her." 
 
 " Now don't, for heaven's sake, say a word 
 about it to her," exclaimed Lucy, in a fright. 
 " She would be savage with me for telling you ; 
 she hates people to know when she is ill. I think 
 she'll die sitting up. She never gives in." 
 
 " I always admire pluck, everywhere," I remarked 
 shortly. " Good-night." I had never liked Lucy 
 less. 
 
 I made my way back to the other side of the 
 house. Half-way I was accosted by an attendant 
 who asked me if I was the gentleman who had 
 been sitting in the stage-box ? On receiving my 
 answer in the affirmative she put a folded note 
 into my hand, saying, " From Miss lima Loraine." 
 Inside was scribbled in pencil, " Dear Mr. St. 
 Jerome, — Will you come and see me after the 
 first act ^ I must speak to you." There were 
 two initials at the end that I could not make out, 
 they were neither I. nor L. Asking the girl to 
 convey my assurance to Miss Loraine that I would 
 go to her, I went on, very much puzzled. I have 
 
A HARD WOMAN 321 
 
 very little connection with persons and matters 
 theatrical, and could not imagine why I should 
 have been selected for this overture on the part of 
 the leading lady, and on the first night too, when 
 she might have been expected to have her hands 
 full! 
 
 Ferdinand Munday was just being ushered into 
 the box as I came up. He looked ill generally, 
 and overworked, and yet somehow I was more im- 
 pressed with his extreme good looks than ever. 
 
 His wife turned sharply round as we came in. 
 Her eyes sought his eagerly, though she said no- 
 thing. 
 
 But when he had shaken hands with his hostess, 
 and was proceeding to take off his coat and hang 
 it up, she half rose and made a pretence of help- 
 ing him. It was merely an excuse for asking him 
 a question. " Is it all right ? " I heard her say, in 
 a short sharp whisper, full of pent-up anxiety. He 
 nodded gravely and sat down. 
 
 Lydia gave a little gasp of relief and clutched her 
 necklace. Then she began to chatter away to 
 me in her usual manner, though I caught myself 
 wishing she would not bite her reddened lips so 
 fiercely and so often — it made me nervous. 
 
 " Well, and what does the Philistine Fred say to 
 it all ? " she inquired vivaciously. " They can't be 
 used to this sort of thing down Manchester way. 
 
322 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 To elope or not to elope ! That is the question ! 
 The poor doctor's wife hasn't even the excuse that 
 her husband is odious. Oh no, that wouldn't be 
 modern enough. He's delightful, so is the lover. 
 There's no villain — except incompatibility." 
 
 "The most insidious of all. Such a problem 
 couldn't have been put on the stage at all five 
 or six years ago," said I. 
 
 " Six years ago there couldn't have been a 
 woman found to act it. This Miss Loraine has 
 the art, it seems to me, of saying the most impos- 
 sible things in the most natural and unoffending 
 manner," said Mrs. Malory. 
 
 The curtain went up, and Miss Loraine was 
 discovered " arranging flowers," that time-honoured 
 artifice of the stage. She wore a tea-gown, im- 
 possible but beautiful. It was fashionable, for 
 the two women went into ecstasies about it, but 
 to me it had a strange suggestion of the mystic 
 wonderful colour harmonies, evanescent, indescrib- 
 able, that characterize the draperies of Ferdinand 
 Munday's mediaeval figures. The actress herself 
 reminded me of his type. She had wonderful 
 dreamy eyes, and one of her best "effects" was 
 a certain childish way she had of looking straight 
 out before her, unheeding, unseeing, a gesture full 
 of a strange pathos that quite outran the mimic woes 
 with which she was supposed to be concerned. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 323 
 
 "Of course Ferdinand is dying to get hold of 
 her to paint," said Lydia Munday. " That's the 
 point of view from which he always looks at a 
 woman. It's rather the Nevill France type, only 
 fair, he has been wanting for two years. Fer- 
 dinand, you shall paint her portrait, and send it 
 to the ' New,' and it shall be the success of the 
 season. It's quite the fashionable thing now, to 
 paint the fashionable actress." 
 
 " It is her voice that appeals to me," murmured 
 Mrs. Malory. " It has the timbre of a voice I once 
 knew — the voice of a person who has gone out of 
 my life " she paused sadly. 
 
 Munday glanced at her with a certain sym- 
 pathy, but said nothing. He had an opera glass 
 and used it continually. Lydia borrowed it now 
 and then. " She's really very handsome ! " she 
 was good enough to remark patronizingly from 
 time to time. " I dare say she is a perfect fool — 
 actresses generally are — there's no need of intel- 
 lect in it, Fve always heard. It's the lowest of 
 the arts. But she'll be the beauty of the season 
 I've not the slightest doubt. We will get to 
 know her, and give a party, with her for the 
 attraction . . . I've been rather neglecting society 
 of late." 
 
 She was aggressively cheerful, almost vulgar. 
 Nobody attended to her beyond the requirements 
 
324 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 of politeness. Munday and Mrs. Malory were 
 absorbed in the play ; I was wondering what this 
 exquisite creature, who never even looked up to 
 our box, could possibly have to say to me .? 
 
 She had had very little to do as yet, she had 
 been husbanding her resources. Social problems, 
 points of amorous casuistry, all the farrago of 
 philosophy and sentiment that go to make up a 
 modern play, held their sway during the second 
 act, but one felt all through the cold aura of a 
 catastrophe. The doctor's wife loved, and loved 
 amiss. Should she renounce } should she love 
 and lie } should she fly with her lover and ruin 
 the life and honour of the man she had married 
 — for love } For love — mind you, there lay the 
 sting. As the dialogue seethed and simmered 
 round the problem, the audience were alternately 
 swayed to the side of renunciation, or expediency, 
 or the world well lost, when a fatal accident 
 brought the lover dying to the husband's door, 
 in imminent need of his professional aid. The 
 irrepressible cry of the doctor's wife, cruel, reck- 
 less, woman-like, brought down the house. " Save 
 him ! Save him ! for I love him ! " 
 
 " Impossible ! " was muttered here and there 
 when the curtain went down, but the word was 
 drowned in the tumult of applause evoked by 
 the convincingness of Miss Loraine's imperson- 
 
A HARD WOMAN 325 
 
 ation of the morbid heroine. Then the sound 
 common-sense of the world reasserted its sway, 
 in the voice of Mrs. Munday — 
 
 " What an absurd situation ! " she babbled. 
 " How foolish those three looked staring at each 
 other ! There is no way out of it that I can see ! 
 The situation's impossible ! " 
 
 " The author will find a way out of it," I said. 
 " In real life it's more difficult." 
 
 "The curtain saves all!" said Munday. "When 
 the playwright thinks he has given us enough of 
 it, or doesn't know how to get the people off, he 
 rings down the curtain, and there's an end — for 
 the time." 
 
 " Yes," said I, moralizing, " but life — inexorable 
 life — goes on ; and we have the rags and tatters 
 of passion — the sordid necessities of existence — 
 the picking up of the pieces " 
 
 "There's nothing to be done, that I can see," 
 repeated Lydia. " All their lives are spoilt. The 
 only way is for the lover to die, and end it neatly." 
 
 " Life doesn't care to preserve the unities. We 
 shall have some lame and impotent conclusion or 
 other," I said, making haste to leave the box and 
 keep my strange appointment with the leading lady. 
 
 " This way, sir ! . . . This way, please . . ." After 
 an interminable series of such hints I found myself 
 in the hands of the call-boy at the end of a gas- 
 
326 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 lighted passage, who then surrendered me to Miss 
 Loraine's maid, who was hanging about the door 
 of her dressing-room. She opened it and intro- 
 duced me. 
 
 It was a narrow little slip of a room, but it was 
 one of the best in the Pall Mall Theatre. A tall 
 woman rose from a low chair on to which she 
 seemed to have flung herself in an access of stage 
 exhaustion, and came forward to meet me, holding 
 her lace handkerchief to her lips. 
 
 " Miss Loraine ? " I said doubtfully. 
 
 But she seized both my hands and held them ; 
 she was trembling all over. " No, no, Nevill 
 France ! Have you forgotten me ? Am I so 
 changed ? " 
 
 Her eyes, as she plunged them into mine, seemed 
 to hold all the tragedy of all the world. 
 
 I was a few moments adjusting my recollections 
 of her, during which she dropped my hands and 
 murmured — " How cruel of you not to remem- 
 ber me ! Am I so changed — for the worse ? " 
 Her mobile eyebrows went up, and the whole face 
 reverted from tragedy to comedy. 
 
 Well, I recollected Nevill France chiefly as a 
 pale-faced, dark-haired, overgrown, untidy young 
 girl who used to infest Ferdinand Munday's 
 studio, and run his wife's errands for her, and act 
 generally as her souffre-douleur — a young woman 
 
A HARD WOMAN 327 
 
 whose incontestable beauty hardly compensated 
 for her lack of style, of manner, of pose — qualities 
 which, in common with our dear Lydia, I value 
 highly. I found difficulty in connecting that vision 
 of other days with this brilliant, supple, conscious, 
 enslaving creature, armed by art and nature at all 
 points for conquest ; whose beautiful figure, as she 
 stood before me, waiting breathless for my recog- 
 nition, had nothing of Nevill France, except its 
 slimness, and whose yellow hair lay on her fore- 
 head in rings of premeditated artlessness where 
 Nevill's dark crisped locks were used to trail at 
 their own will, 
 
 I said so, not in so many words. 
 
 "It's a wig," said she brusquely, pulling at a 
 string somewhere, and it suddenly came off, and 
 floods of dark hair rolled out and down her neck. 
 The action would have been grotesque if it had 
 not been so swift and dramatic. " Dreadful, isn't 
 it ? but one has to," said she apologetically. " See, 
 you know me now ! You remember me as the 
 Burne-Jones girl, don't you ? So does every- 
 body. I was like that once. But that sort of 
 thing won't do on the stage, it is too ineffective. 
 Now sit down and tell me all about it ! " 
 
 She had all the over-ease, the weary aplomb of 
 the actress, but I could see under it all, how all 
 her nerves were "on end," as the saying is, 
 
328 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 with the excitement of the part she had been 
 playing. 
 
 " I am on in ten minutes," she announced ; " not 
 long to learn the history of two whole years, is it ? 
 Tell me. I sent for you because I knew you would 
 be kind and tell me all I want to know. I look 
 on you as an old friend . . . How is he? Is he 
 well ? Is he happy ? Is she good to him ? I've 
 heard nothing for two whole years." Her eyes 
 looked at me hungrily ; with her loosened dark 
 hair and big sad eyes she looked hke Nevill now. 
 I did not even ask her whom she intended to 
 designate by the frequent pronoun. 
 
 " He is very successful. They have made him 
 an R.A." 
 
 " But is he well ? " 
 
 " Fairly well. He works too hard." 
 
 " Ah, he always did that ! She never let him 
 off. Go on, tell me ! . . . Do you mind if 
 my maid comes back and arranges all this ? 
 Blonde I was in the first act, and blonde I must 
 remain." 
 
 The dresser came in and deftly restored the 
 yellow wig, and her mistress sat in front of her 
 glass and chattered to me the while in that brilliant 
 irresponsible style, as of a wise, all-knowing yet 
 simple child, that startled while it fascinated me. 
 She was a creature of nerves now, and kept her 
 
A HARD WOMAN 329 
 
 self-control for the stage. I never could talk to 
 Nevill France, I remember ; with Miss Loraine I 
 spoke on equal terms, as to a woman of the 
 world. 
 
 " Does he recognize me ? " she asked eagerly. 
 " Does he think I am playing up ? I think I have 
 got them, don't you — the audience, I mean? I 
 felt they were with me — but I want you to tell me 
 what he thinks." 
 
 " His wife is chaffing him about his wanting to 
 paint Miss lima Loraine." 
 
 " Paint me ! Ah, what a long time ago that is ! 
 I am so different now ! . . ." Her eyes grew 
 distant. " When I remember what a little fool 
 I was ; I had no pluck, no savoir vivre. I ran 
 away . . . That is my dear Mrs. Malory you are 
 with, isn't it ? " Like most artists, she was 
 transitional. 
 
 " Yes ; she was always so fond of you. Why 
 have you kept her and your other friends in 
 ignorance of your whereabouts all this time ? " 
 I asked reproachfully. 
 
 " Because — oh, because — " the dresser had glided 
 away, " I begged Calder-Marston not to give me 
 away. I was very, very miserable when I left Eng- 
 land. I wanted to cut the traces and forget it all. I 
 wanted to work at my art, and to think of nothing 
 else — to live for it ; and I did, I worked like a slave." 
 
330 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " To very good purpose," I said admiringly. 
 
 "Do you think so? I am glad. But it isn't 
 done in a moment, you know — all this," waving 
 her hand round the room, which, small as it was, 
 represented the position of leading lady to one of 
 the most important theatres in London. "It was 
 perfect drudgery abroad. Calder-Marston has been 
 very kind, but it was Festugeres who was my real 
 master, and bullied me — into any proficiency I 
 may have. Do you think London will like me 
 now I am here ? This is a silly play, isn't it ? but 
 it is full of good things." The call-boy knocked 
 at the door just then, and we heard the roar of 
 applause as the curtain went up on an elaborate 
 rural scene in the Highlands. " I am on in five 
 minutes. Come outside — shall we? Then I shall 
 be ready for my call ... Do you think he knows 
 I am Nevill.?" 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure. He is very quiet, 
 and looks at you very often. I should not have 
 recognized you." 
 
 " Ah, but you must remember he knows my face 
 better than you do. His pencil has travelled all 
 over it." Her smile had a sweet subtle triumph in 
 it. " Tell me, shall you tell him ? " 
 
 "Shall I?" 
 
 " No, I think, not yet. It would make me miss 
 my cues perhaps. I mustn't play tricks with my 
 
A HARD WOMAN 331 
 
 part ! But I will look up at the very last, 
 when " 
 
 " What is going to happen ? Is there a good 
 curtain ? " 
 
 " I shall not tell you. I don't mean to give 
 my author away . . . My call ! '* she exclaimed 
 suddenly, with a brilliant confident glance. '' I 
 go!" 
 
 The rapturous applause that greeted her 
 re-entry on the stage was in my ears as I 
 made my way back to the box, and poor Lydia 
 Munday. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Where have you been, Mr. St. Jerome ? " asked 
 the latter gaily, as I came in. Her cheerfulness 
 struck me as intensely pathetic somehow. Pathos 
 had not been in Lydia Munday's role so far, but I 
 seemed to foresee that, among other developments 
 of the human comedy, in store for her in the 
 future. " You look quite dazed ! " 
 
 " He looks as if he had been away seven years 
 with the Queen of Fairyland — so bewildered, 
 so other-worldish," said the poetical-minded 
 Mrs. Malory. " Have you come back to earth 
 with a disdain for ordinary mortals, Mr. St, 
 Jerome?" 
 
 "He has been flirting with Miss Loraine per- 
 haps," hazarded Mrs. Munday lightly. " No — I 
 
332 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 don't suppose there would be room for you, Mr. 
 St. Jerome. There are so many. I'm told one of 
 the princes is madly in love with her. Mr. Bowen 
 has been here telling us all the gossip. She's 
 not married, he says — English by birth — Calder- 
 Marston is her devoted slave. He goes bragging 
 everywhere how he discovered her . . . She's 
 quite good ..." She turned her eyes to the 
 play. " Well, is she going to run away with her 
 lover — the doctor's wife, I mean ? It would be 
 playing it rather low down on the husband ! " 
 
 " Husbands are accustomed to that ... on the 
 stage anyhow." 
 
 " The doctor's wife will find another way," said 
 Mrs. Malory sagely. 
 
 She did. The play was a tragedy. A cry, a 
 groan, a forcing from her nerveless fingers by her 
 husband of a sharp surgical knife abstracted from 
 his surgery, told the audience of the wife's solution 
 of the problem. Her eyes, as she twisted them in 
 the death agony, met Lydia's. 
 
 " It's Nevill ! " she whispered to me. " Ferdinand, 
 it'sNevill!" 
 
 " I know," he answered, without taking his eyes 
 away. 
 
 I helped Mrs. Malory to put on her cloak as the 
 curtain fell. Ferdinand was backward with his 
 offer to help his wife to find hers, and she did 
 
A HARD WOMAN 333 
 
 it for herself. I caught sight of her determined face 
 in the mirror at the side of the box, her tight lips 
 set. I heard the sharp click of the clasp as she 
 fastened it at the neck. She stood stiffly beside 
 me through the applause, which was long and loud. 
 
 Nevill France's grave eyes, as she bowed and 
 acknowledged her thanks, took in the group 
 we formed. Mrs. Malory, still unaware of her 
 protegee's identity, indulged in various enthusiastic 
 comments, in which the rest of us, from various 
 reasons, did not loudly participate. 
 
 Mrs. Munday took my arm down-stairs. She 
 was rather pale. 
 
 "Miss France has the world at her feet," I 
 said, by way of making conversation. " She is 
 wonderful, isn't she } " 
 
 " Wonderful ! " repeated Lydia, like a parrot, 
 then, "I always think, do you know, that a 
 woman, to act like that, must be more or less of 
 a fool ! " 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Will you drop me at the Foreign Office .? " 
 said Mrs. Malory to the Mundays. '* I have to go 
 on there, and I'm late. Then the carriage can 
 take you home." 
 
 Mrs. Munday accepted. 
 
 " Thank you, I think I will walk !" said Munday. 
 " I want a word with St. Jerome." 
 
334 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 His wife gave him a long suspicious look, but 
 said nothing. Ferdinand put the two women into 
 the carriage, and then turned away with me. But 
 he seemed to have nothing particular to say, and 
 took a cab almost immediately. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 335 
 
 SCENE XXVIII 
 
 " Why, there's a light in the studio ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Munday, as she got out of Mrs. Malory's 
 brougham and began to let herself in with her 
 own latch-key. " Ferdinand must have got home 
 first somehow. It was that block at the Foreign 
 Office. Good-night, dear Mrs. Malory, and thank 
 you so much." 
 
 She rustled up-stairs through the dark house to 
 the studio. There was a noise of easels being 
 rolled about. As she approached the door the 
 electric light was suddenly turned off. 
 
 " Where are you ? What are you doing, 
 Ferdinand ? " 
 
 The white of a shirt-front gleamed in the semi- 
 darkness of the summer night as Munday came 
 forward to meet her. She went across to the 
 electric button and impatiently turned on both the 
 lights. He stared at her mutely. 
 
 " I declare, Ferdinand, your hair looks quite 
 grey in this light. Don't look at me as if I were 
 
336 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 a ghost, instead of your real flesh-and-blood wife. 
 What have you got that old thing out for ? " she 
 asked, pointing to a large canvas which had been 
 dragged into unusual prominence. It was the 
 " Fiammetta " for which Nevill France had sat two 
 years ago. The tall solemn mediaeval figure, with 
 its straight draperies, and the faint adumbration of 
 the white lily in the hair like a halo, seemed to 
 look down in mute reproach on Lydia in her fussy 
 fashionable elegance, as she moved nearer and 
 contemplated it through her glasses. 
 
 "Ah, she's not like that now! No lilies and 
 languors about her — I should say the roses and 
 raptures, etc., were nearer the mark." She looked 
 round as if she expected her husband to resent 
 this criticism, but he did not seem to have 
 heard her. 
 
 " Wake up, Ferdinand ! You look quite idiotic ! 
 Why have you got this out ^ What are you going 
 to do with it ? " 
 
 " I have sold it to Verschoyle to-day." 
 
 « Unfinished } " 
 
 " I shall finish it." 
 
 " From memory ? " said she anxiously. 
 
 " From memory — yes." 
 
 " I thought you had gone round there, when you 
 wouldn't come home with us." 
 
 " Gone round where ? " — he spoke sharply. 
 
A HARD WOMAN 337 
 
 " To see that girl ! " 
 
 Munday came a step forward. " Look here," 
 he said, *' I have sold this picture to meet the 
 demands of your creditors. I didn't intend to sell 
 it at all, as you know. I do not wish you to say 
 anything about it, or of the lady who was once 
 good enough to sit to me for it. What concerns 
 you is that Verschoyle is going to give me nine 
 hundred for it. That will satisfy your dressmaker 
 to begin with, and then " 
 
 "Madame Cromer! But, Ferdinand, we are 
 not going to pay her, surely ? I thought you 
 said " 
 
 " Certainly, she must be paid. You owe her the 
 money." 
 
 " But, Ferdinand, I asked you in the theatre if 
 it was all right, and you said it was." She began 
 to cry. 
 
 " It's all right, in the sense that you won't be 
 sold up on Tuesday, but money spent is spent, 
 and we have got to pay what you owe. And 
 there's a good deal behind Madame Cromer, isn't 
 there .? — as I saw by your papers last night. You 
 don't suppose we can go on as we have been going 
 on, even with the income we have — or that we had 
 — and not come to grief.?" 
 
 " You mean as I have been going on ? " 
 
 " Well, if you like to accuse yourself " 
 
338 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " But I have been shockingly cheated," she cried 
 wildly. " Haven't I ? — now haven't I ? You have 
 only got to look at my bills." 
 
 " Of course you have been cheated. You laid 
 yourself open to it when you chose to deal with 
 cads and scoundrels. They would have been fools 
 as well if they hadn't taken advantage of your 
 ignorance." 
 
 "Oh, Ferdinand, don't scold me, but tell me 
 what you have done about it. Did you see Cohen ? 
 I do hope you haven't muddled it." 
 
 Ferdinand smiled — the return to her old manner 
 was so characteristic. " I don't think you need 
 trouble yourself about the means I used. I put a 
 certain alternative before Mr. Benjamin Cohen, and 
 the poor man has so little character that he couldn't 
 afford to lose the little reputation he has left. He 
 thought it wisest to hand me back a portion of the 
 money you placed in his syndicate." 
 
 " But it's all spent ! " 
 
 "Not all— only about half." 
 
 " Surely, surely, Ferdinand, you never got any- 
 thing back from the Cohen gang ? " 
 
 " I did. I got back five thousand seven hundred 
 and fifty pounds. I cashed Mr. Cohen's cheque 
 for that amount at his own bank half-an-hour 
 after he gave it me." 
 
 " Ferdinand ! " 
 
A HARD WOMAN 339 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Oh, it's impossible ! I am dreaming. No one 
 ever got back money from Ben Cohen, or Sam 
 Mendoza, or Roberts." 
 
 " My dear, you are over-wrought ! Look, here 
 are the notes ! Fifty-seven hundreds and five 
 tens ! Will that convince you ? " 
 
 "But — what did you say? — How did you manage? 
 Cohen is the hardest financier, the shrewdest man, 
 the greatest scoundrel in Manchester, and you made 
 him — you, a mere artist — a perfect " 
 
 " A perfect fool, in money matters ! I suppose I 
 am. Well, it all came of my happening to know 
 of a very mean little trick of this same Mr. 
 Benjamin Cohen — a little private and particular 
 swindle over a picture of mine, an extremely dirty 
 transaction — but I never troubled to go to law over 
 it. It was simpler to put up with the loss. But 
 I reminded him of the matter to-day. I didn't beat 
 about the bush ; I simply told him the story would 
 be told in a criminal court of law unless — Mr. 
 Cohen thought it best not to waste words — he 
 walked straight to his desk — I see he is a thorough 
 man of business. As I was putting the alternative 
 to him, he took out his cheque-book. The cheque 
 was drawn to X. Y. or bearer, and he said he 
 wouldn't trouble me for a receipt." 
 
 " Ferdinand, you are quite wonderful ! " She 
 
340 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 half shut her eyes ; they filled with tears in the 
 ecstasy of her relief. She sat down beside him, first 
 turning off all the lights but one, out of a new-born 
 instinct of economy. "We can talk in the dark," 
 she said. " I wish, Ferdinand — I wish he had 
 given it all back ! " 
 
 " Ah, my dear, be thankful " 
 
 " Shall wc have to leave this house ? '* she asked, 
 still in the same complaining tone of voice. 
 
 " We must try to let it, and if we can't we must 
 run it as cheaply as possible. We must live 
 exceedingly quietly." 
 
 " Just what I hate," murmured she. 
 
 " It can't be helped. We are by no means out 
 of the wood yet. Besides, you have been retrench- 
 ing and economizing all this time, it appears, by 
 yourself, without me to help you. It never even 
 occurred to me that we were hard up." 
 
 " Yes, didn't I manage well ? " she cried, with a 
 gleam of triumph. "You never even guessed. I 
 didn't even feed you badly, did I, Ferdinand ? But 
 I used to lie awake at nights and wonder, wonder 
 what would become of me. And you were quite 
 unconscious. I hated you sometimes for not know- 
 ing. I wanted to come behind you, as you sat at 
 your easel, and shout it in your ear. And it was so 
 irritating to see you toil and moil away at things 
 for ever — ' making them better ' — when they were 
 
A HARD WOMAN 341 
 
 quite good enough to sell as they were ! I took 
 one picture away, and sold it myself to Wigan — a 
 little sketch of Swanbergh — you forgot about it. 
 There you were, day after day, striving after your 
 ideal — worrying along till you pleased yourself — 
 when if you pleased other people it was all that was 
 needed. You were enough to vex a saint with your 
 stupid ideals and standards ! " 
 
 " All right ! " he said. " You won't have that to 
 complain of now." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that I shall have to sacrifice my ideals, 
 as you call them, and paint simply for money — 
 like so many other poor devils ! " 
 
 " Well, don't you always ? " 
 
 " Oh, Lydia ! " 
 
 " Ah, you mean paint pot-boilers ? " 
 
 " Don't ! " said he, shivering a little. 
 
 " Poor thing ! " 
 
 He looked up surprised as she sat down beside 
 him, raised his hand that hung helpless, and stroked 
 it almost tenderly. 
 
 " Poor Ferdinand, you hate it all, don't you ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " I suppose, now, you will say I've ruined your 
 life ? " she continued, not ungently. 
 
 " I am not likely to say anything of the kind." 
 
 "But you'll think it?" 
 
342 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " Don't worry me, dear." 
 
 " Poor Ferdinand ! " she said again. " No, you 
 weren't meant for this sort of thing. You were 
 meant to live in a nice garden in a wood, and 
 paint pretty pictures at your leisure, instead of 
 struggling with the hard, ugly, matter-of-fact world, 
 and now you are going to — for my sake ! It is 
 good of you, and I appreciate it. You're the only 
 man I've ever known well, except Fred, and he 
 
 would have left me to starve. Ferdinand " 
 
 She looked at his quiet, impassive face and cried 
 out brusquely — " Oh, I've been a beast — and 
 worse, an idiot ! — but still, you know, it wasn't " 
 
 " Don't excuse yourself, dear, I am not condemn- 
 ing you." 
 
 " No, you're not, that's why I am condemning 
 myself. If you scolded me it would put my back 
 up at once . . . Well, I'll be brave ; it's going to 
 be a hateful time for me, but it won't last for ever. 
 You will soon paint us round, won't you ? I'll sit 
 for you, to save models. You can work quite 
 quickly if you like, I know, and you'll get heaps of 
 commissions, if you'll only condescend to take them 
 up. You have always been so haughty. People 
 are always wanting little, cheap showy nymphs 
 and so on, to hang up. You can run them off like 
 anything, if you try. Oh, you will soon paint us 
 round ! I have the greatest confidence in you. I 
 
A HARD WOMAN 343 
 
 assure you I feel quite cheerful now, by comparison 
 — after the misery of the last year. It has been a 
 fearful strain on me. It has quite hurt my health. 
 But you must be kind to me, and consoling. I 
 shall tell you everything now. I wonder if there's 
 anything else that is bothering me ? . . . What is 
 this hard thing in your pocket ? " 
 
 " Oh, I was forgetting ! " he exclaimed. '* Your 
 letters to Davenant. Had you forgotten about 
 them ? " 
 
 " Quite," said she, lying. " Tell me, did he make 
 a fuss?" 
 
 " A little — yes — he made some trifling difficulty." 
 
 " And you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I got him to see it from my point of view." 
 
 " You acted complete indifference, I suppose, and 
 got him that way." 
 
 " I don't know that I acted it," said Munday 
 carelessly. " Here, take them ! " 
 
 '* That's not very complimentary to your wife, is 
 it?" She affected to bridle, but the tears of 
 mortification came into her eyes as she stretched 
 out her hand for the little packet tied with string 
 which he handed to her, while his eyes wandered 
 back to the portrait. 
 
 " Did Cossie tie them up like that ? " 
 
 " No — I did — to keep them together." 
 
 Her eyes looked an interrogation. 
 
344 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 " I have not read them — if you mean that." 
 
 " Will you — now? " she said, with some hesitation, 
 holding out the packet ; ** you have the right to . . . 
 but ... I had so much rather you didn't." She 
 laid her head on his shoulder. He smiled bitterly. 
 
 '* Do you think I ought to read them ?" 
 
 " Not ought, but if you want to ? " 
 
 " Are they compromising ? " 
 
 " No, worse — silly ! " 
 
 He laughed outright ; it was a disagreeable 
 laugh for her to hear. "Give them to me," he 
 said. 
 
 Obediently she handed them to him, and he rose, 
 and tearing off the string, threw them loosely into 
 the empty grate, and held a lighted match under 
 them. They were slow in igniting, and curled and 
 twisted for a long while under their eyes before 
 they burnt fairly. 
 
 " I had no idea it was so hard to burn letters," 
 said Ferdinand, holding one match under them 
 after another. " It isn't dramatic ; they ought to 
 blaze up at once ! " 
 
 " So they would, if they were compromising," 
 said Lydia, with a feeble attempt at gaiety. She 
 stood behind him as he knelt by the grate, and laid 
 her haiTd on his hair. 
 
 The broad jet discs of her bodice gleamed in the 
 light, she seemed clad in a hard sheath-like coat of 
 
A HARD WOMAN 345 
 
 mail. The flames flickered down to grey ash, and 
 he rose. 
 
 *' Oh, Ferdinand, I love you. Do you love me ? 
 Say you do, oh, say you do ! " She cast her arms 
 round him as he stood in the middle of the 
 studio. The sleeves fell back to her shoulders 
 with a clash of metallic embroidery. " Why 
 are you so stony ? What a hard face ! — but I 
 love it." She touched his cheek with her fingers. 
 ** You have such dark sad eyes ! Love me ! " 
 
 Mechanically he put his arms round her shoulders 
 and held her. 
 
 She went on. " Oh, don't let us be sad ! It's all 
 right, isn't it ? I had a bad time this morning, but 
 I'm going to forget it all. It will all be different now. 
 We are going to be happy. We have lost a lot of 
 money, but we have got each other. I've got you, 
 and you have got me. Isn't that enough, Ferdinand ? 
 I never thought I loved you so. This sorrow has 
 brought us together — and you were so nice about 
 the letters. Ferdinand, do say something ! Kiss 
 me ! I am kissing you, I don't often do that, but I 
 do it now. You might at least kiss me back." 
 
 She tightened her arms till they met round his 
 neck. She kissed him clumsily, violently, eagerly, 
 ag^iin and again. The tears were in her voice as 
 she repeated : " Ferdinand, don't you love me ? — 
 don't you ? " 
 
346 A HARD WOMAN 
 
 When he still did not answer she raised her 
 head and looked in his face. His slack arms were 
 round her indeed, but he was staring over her 
 shoulder to where the white-robed Fiammetta 
 stood, and drooped under the broad leaf of the 
 lily. 
 
 Very slowly she withdrew her arms and pushed 
 him away. 
 
 " I understand," she said dully, pointing to the 
 picture. Her voice had a sharp note of anguish 
 in it as she cried — " That's the woman you love ! 
 . . . Ferdinand ! . . . Ferdinand ! . . . I deserve 
 it ! " 
 
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